


The Gryphon, the River and the Wildcat.

by Glenstorm63



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-18 01:49:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4687838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glenstorm63/pseuds/Glenstorm63
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bookverse... this story contains no characters you know as it is set before the events of the Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe. It concerns an attempt by Jadis's minions to stage an invasion of Narnia. In identifying the sources and purpose of this threat, we meet a series of protagonists, secondary characters and villains. These include a young Narnian boy with a unique destiny, an urbane but anxious wildcat of impeccable character, a raven of formidable powers of inquisition, a young fisherman and his Calormene mother, and the young ruling Queen of Archenland.<br/>Interlacing story lines and their different protagonists will eventually intersect.<br/>A WORK IN PROGRESS<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Prologue

This is the story of an adventure that took place in Narnia and Archenland and the lands to the west in the days when King Dale was the ruler of Narnia, Queen Esme was ruler of Archenland. King Dale of Narnia was an old widowed man with 5 grandchildren and Queen Esme was still a very young woman who had only lately come to her throne. They were 14th and 16th in line respectively from Queen Helen and King Frank. 

In those days, the descendants of Frank and Helen's children and their semi-divine consorts had spread across many parts of Narnia and Archenland, farming the land around small hamlets, quarrying the hills in partnership with the dwarves and tending the forests and lands with the guidance of the guardians of the woods, rivers and fields. 

Many Talking Beasts and fabulous magical creatures such as centaurs, fauns, gryphons, unicorns and flying horses were a part of their communities in those days in both countries and there was much coming and going between them. It was nothing to see a tumbling mix of faun, human, dryad and centaur children out on a spring romp near Armouthe or Beruna with their fond parents looking on, chatting about the crops coming in, the steps of the stars in the firmament or the rapturous joy and frivolity of the first rites of spring. 

The largest villages that existed were mostly along the great river, with Beruna and Paravel so far being the only ones in Narnia that could claim to be towns, and Armouthe which was the harbour, fishing port and seat of government in Archenland. Armouthe sat on a tidal bend of the Winding Arrow, a good 2 miles from the mouth and over 80 winding land miles from Anvard, the summer mountain retreat of the Archen nobility. 

But the boy in our story knew little of these details. He knew that Anvard lay high up to the south, on the other side of the pass to Archenland, but he was more familiar with Southern Narnia and Beruna, their market-town which lay a day's journey away on packhorse. To him as a young farm boy, it seemed full of adventure and curiosities at every turn. He yet knew nothing of the wider world or of what was to come.

[I would like to gratefully acknowledge Transposable_Element who concieved of the port of Armouth at the mouth of the Winding Arrow long before me as mentioned in A Traitor's Death. I used it unconsciously and have only just realised the source. My spelling with a silent 'e' on the end, is a nod to Tolkien's Isenmouthe. Glenstorm63, 5th July 2016]


	2. Torman's Reach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwyn, a boy from Lindenlea Farm in Southern Narnia is fishing for scampi when he has a dramatic encounter.

Chapter 1: Torman's Reach 

It was a late summer afternoon in Southern Narnia. 

A boy lay over a broad yellow rock, idly toying with green water weed under with a willow wand. He was watching the swirling tendrils as he moved the stick in the current, teasing some rainbow minnows which darted like living jewels after the bits of detritus that wafted into the water from his disturbances. 

He was also enjoying the reflections of the slanting sun rippling and shimmering against the water surface and his rock, breaking up the shadows on the upstream side. If he looked very hard and shaded his eyes and squinted slightly, he also found he could see deep into the pool on his left and spy a large indigo river pavender lazily swaying in and out of the deeper shadows showing itself occasionally against the yellow stones, while it waited for an unfortunate minnow or two to dive down after some fast sinking morsel. 

A red dragonfly skimmed the surface hoping for a catch of a water boatman.

The boy's name was Gwyn and he had been planning to catch some long armed river prawns in some of the small cataracts nearby, and take them home for his mother for soup, but he had not had any luck. They did not bite at the bait he waved at them, and kept firmly to their crevices.

Gwyn had no siblings, but knew many talking beasts, a family of deer, a few talking hedgehogs, hares and ravens as well as a clan of dwarves who lived in a complex of caverns and mines over the next ridge. They mined gems and had a small hidden plantation of the slow growing gold and silver trees that had grown in Lantern Waste from the first day. These they guarded very carefully. They traded their beautiful jewellery for food and clothing at Beruna and sometimes tramped all the way up to Anvard in the summer to sell at the hunting meets. 

Once a month Gwyn's family travelled to and from Beruna market with members of the clan, riding stock horses and rough haired ponies down the riverside track, with panniers full of vegetables, herbs, fruits, buckles, knives, weapons and trinkets; sometimes returning with most panniers emptied but refilled with tipsy sleepy dwarves. Gwyn usually stayed for a few days afterward to attend school and came back home separately accompanied by one or the other of his parents. 

At this moment, Gwyn’s mother was weeding onions and bending their stalks to help harden them up before harvest. Gwyn's father was out looking for a trio of goats which had wandered off two days ago after being caught in a summer storm. Luckily he had the help of an irascible talking ibex buck called Rastus and a mangy old talking bulldog called Clive. They were expected to return home together driving the three goats before them and into the home pen before nightfall.

Gwyn was in his was favourite spot, Torman's Reach, a wonderful little side twist of the Archen River, the main channel of which was roaring between steep yellow banks of rock only forty yards away and a few yards lower down. The place was festooned with laburnum, ferns, broom, hazel, giant pink honeysuckle and the occasional splash of purple lasiandra. After it had tumbled down from the high tors and snowy peaks of Archenland, the Archen River and its many tributaries, frothed their way through steep forested valleys and rocky gorges, before the valleys opened into the gentler folds of the lands of Southern Narnia above the Great River.

This was one of those places where the main Archen River was beginning to open out to these gentler lands and from Gwyn's secret spot, because it was slightly higher up, he could see right across central Narnia and the Great River to the far moors, dimly rearing their bleak grey backs to the distant northern sky. If he looked north-east he could just spy out the hill of the stone table about thirty-five miles away, with the secret woods about Dancing Lawn nestled out of sight on the far side. There was also a glimpse of the Eastern Sea which at this time of day was dark blue.

Just as Gwyn was turning his gaze to look south-west towards the sun, he noticed what looked like a small bird against the bright light. He shaded his eyes and squinted. 

Yes, it was a bird, but it wasn't small. It was hurtling down the valley of the Archen and it appeared to be an eagle. Probably about a mile away.  
Gwyn had seen eagles before many times but had always seen them gliding and circling and occasionally diving and disappearing, no doubt to snatch some small hapless thing. 

But this was different. The flight was headlong and turbulent and somehow sinuous. The wings were labouring to gain even more speed. Something was up. Gwyn caught the glint of copper and gold and after a moment, as it got rapidly closer he saw it wasn't an eagle at all. Behind the sweep of the huge wings trailed a powerful set of hindquarters and a long feathered tail. It was a Gryphon.

Gwyn gasped and tensed. Gryphons were rare beasts and nearly all were in the service of the Kings and Queens of Archenland and Narnia.

His heart raced as he stood tensely, shading his eyes as he watched the approaching Gryphon against the south-westering sun. This hurtling creature of the air and high peaks swept down the last part of the valley and when it was quite close, it have a great shuddering cry and looked down at him. The cry seemed to have words but Gwyn could not make them all out except he got an overwhelming sense of urgency. 

It passed directly overhead, so close, Gwyn could see the scarlet and gold leg jesses of the royal couriers dangling from its front claws. It bunched itself with folded wings, and in a graceful rolling tumble, its tail swinging out wildly as a rudder, took off sharply to the north-east, wings again labouring before settling in for a steady steep glide; down, down, down.

Gwyn watched it get smaller and smaller, bright gold against the sky, until with another roll it dropped right out of sight, into the soft shadows which the Archen mountains were just beginning to lengthen across eastern Narnia. It was clearly heading for Cair Paravel... and with utmost urgency. Something was afoot.

It was also getting late in the day. Gwyn stood, trembling, his heart racing. Quickly, he jumped across to the near bank, stooped down, grabbed his leathern bag by the strap, swung it over his shoulder and with one fluid leap, scrambled into the brush and disappeared, heading for home.


	3. Lindenlea Farm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We come to the farm and learn more about Gwyn, his family and how they live.  
> (Please read the Chapter "Dorcas" to learn more about Gwyn's special importance in this story)

Chapter 2: Lindenlea Farm 

It was now dusk. 

Gwyn trotted up the slope to the farmhouse where it sat on a shelf of land that looked up at the Archen Mountains and the southern sky. There was forest behind and a large garden spreading out down the hill. Then fields that dropped down to another tumbling river that was a tributary to the Archen. 

He stumbled panting in at the house gate. He flipped the wooden latch and had the presence of mind to carefully drop it back behind him as he closed it. There was a lamp hanging on the front veranda. His mother was sitting on the veranda her legs spread wide as she used a knife to top and tail onions into her grubby apron. She gave Gwyn a tired smile of welcome but then looked at him again sharply as he came closer. 

"What's wrong son? Did you have an accident or something?" she asked, as she took in his panting and the twigs and leaves that had caught in his hair. She stood up, onions falling onto the floor and reached out to brush some of the bits off him. She also noticed that the knee of his right trouser had been torn and she wasn't looking forward to patching it up, but no matter. When she found him to be mostly uninjured, she asked “Any luck with the river prawns love?” He shook his head, then panted in return "Do you know if they found the missing goats?" venturing to cover his anxiety with something closer to home. She said, "not yet", and then simply waited, watching him as he caught his breath.

But after a few moments, Gwyn told her the story of what he'd seen. About the gryphon's headlong flight down the Archen Valley, its great grating cry and then disappearance into the late afternoon shadows of Narnia towards Cair Paravel. Now he told it out loud it didn't seem nearly as dramatic or important as it had felt at the time. It even occurred to him then that probably his mother had often seen the royal messengers flying to and fro and began to wonder if she would laugh and tell him he was being dramatic. 

He looked doubtfully at his mother. But she looked back at him gravely, with a slight frown furrowing her brow.  
Her clear brown eyes caught a little of the lamp light and glinted. Then she said, "I think you did well to come home quickly Gwyn. Not only was it high time to be home", she said with a wry hint of a laugh and a shake of her forefinger, "but I think when a royal messenger comes past in such a hurry and bothers to cry out, goodness knows it must have been breathless with all its effort, it was either in great distress or trying to warn us of something... or both.”

“It's a pity you couldn’t hear its words clearly. But there is something afoot. Don't fret too much though Gwyn love. Let me think on it. When your father gets home we'll talk it over and work out if there's anything to be done.”

“Maybe the messenger birds will tell us something in the next day or two", he added hopefully.  
She paused and smiled at him. "Probably they will… but we’ll just have to wait and see. Come on, time to come inside, dinner to be cooking". 

With that, she leaned down, scooped up the onions, unhooked the lamp from the hook and holding it up for him to take, ushered Gwyn inside with it. Gwyn was getting to be a tall boy, his wavy dark locks nearly topping her shoulder. She looked down fondly on him. 

He could be a scapegrace at times but he was a respectful lad and perceptive. And clever with his hands. She believed the farm would be in these good hands when eventually the time came for she and her husband to go to Aslan's country. Then, before going back inside, she paused on the threshold and holding the lamp behind her, stared for a few moments directly into the gathering darkness, listening. 

The small entrance hall, that helped keep the heat in when people went to and fro in cold weather, had a few coats and boots and snow shoes hanging up, and a hook with a polished steel shield that could be used as a mirror when the door was open. The farmhouse was dark except for her lamp and the glow that came from the large dwarf-made wrought iron cooking stove and a little post-sunset glow that came in through the small diamond-shaped panes of bubbly glass that sat high in the walls. She went to the stove against the far wall, took a dry piece of oiled river-rush, lit it at the stove and using it as a taper, briskly went round and lit three more lamps that hung from hooks around the walls. 

If you had been there, you would have seen one very large room, with scrubbed dark timber floor, a great slab of dark grey stone at the far end with the with stove on top, shelves, benches, table, kitchen chairs and sitting room and workshop all in one. Bunches of herbs and smoked sausages hung from one rafter, a few burnished pots and pans from another.

On one side of the stove was a door that led to a bedroom. On the other, was an alcove with a bath. Then a little set of steps that wound up to a loft next to the flue. This was where Gwyn slept.

On the right wall was a door that led to another small room that had once belonged to his old nurse Dorcas. But she had died the previous autumn and as yet, they had not had the heart to reclaim it. 

On the left wall was another door that doubled as a woodshed and the sleeping quarters for Rastus and Clive, although Clive the bulldog, often insisted on sleeping on the hearthrug and Rastus usually stayed out with the dumb goats in good weather or in the barn on winter nights. 

Sometimes in the spring both Rastus and Clive would get restless and go roaming, Rastus up to the higher fells in the neighbourhood looking for his people, and Clive to the more populous village lands along the great river. They would disappear sometimes for weeks on end. But they always came back, usually looking a little smug with a spring in their step but occasionally a little woebegone. They never spoke much about their doings to Gwyn, but just coughed in their goaty and doggy ways and sheepishly asked after everyone's health. 

On these occasions, Gwyn's parents would simply grin and with a waggle of their eyebrows, say "sowing wild oats again?" If one of them came back looking woebegone, they might get some extra helpings of mash or warm soup and be made a fuss of for a few days. 

In the evenings Rastus sometimes joined Clive and the family as they talked about the goings-on at the farm and what the messenger birds had been reporting of wider events. This source of news was important at keeping in touch with the wider world but they had to be careful. There was a tendency for some of the birds to get things a little wrong and then for everything to be blown up out of proportion. These were commonly known as Narnian Twitters and it was a wise person who listened with a wary ear to a flock of starlings telling and embellishing a story over and over or the panicked twinking of flighty blackbirds. 

If it was inclement weather, Rastus would use his sleeping quarters but by morning he was usually gone and had been down to inspect the main goat herd and was ready to make a report on their state of health by breakfast. Sometimes it was "all fine today... so far" or it could be "Martha's got a sore left hoof, must be a thorn... no doubt you'll have her leg off by evening". Or, "Daisy's milk's not flowing, sore udder, the new kids'll probably die, I shouldn't wonder". 

But despite his steady pessimism, he was such an asset to the farm because he could always tell when anything was wrong or which goat was antsy with another, that managing the goats and keeping them so happy and well could not gave been done without him. 

Rastus certainly took Aslan's ancient instruction seriously, "The dumb beasts whom I have not chosen are yours also. Treat them gently and cherish them".

The farm also kept a small flock of capercaillies who had a roost and pen up close to the house. These mountain birds, a kind of grouse, were excellent foragers and were let loose every few days to browse the nearby undergrowth and find grubs, earwigs and slaters for their chicks and in the right season peck up grass seeds, and gorge on the wild cranberries, raspberries and blueberries that grew in clumps for miles around. In the winter they were happy to be fed needle trimmings from the many spruces and larches that grew on the heights behind the house. They always came back home and laid nearly all their eggs in their little roost. 

For in the early days of Narnia, King Frank and Queen Helen had found that unlike the breeds of domestic dogs, horses, sheep, donkeys or goats which they knew from their younger days in Wales and Cornwall, there were no chickens of any kind, talking or otherwise in Narnia, and Queen Helen had gone riding on Fledge, accompanied by several of the Talking Falcons and Kites and Eagles, seeking high and low for any large ground bird that might fill the gap. 

They had found the capercaillies in the foothills of the Archen mountains and in the Western Wild and with some deft diving by the falcon, had managed to drive off parents from several nests of chicks. Queen Helen had carefully taken three or four from each nest and they had flown back to Narnia with them to care for. Most survived. 

By a stroke of luck, in the milder climate of Narnia, as long as they were kept in the warmth of a barn in cold spells and could range freely at times to fly about and play their courtship dances in season, they were happy hirds and tended to lay 3 or so eggs a week right across spring and summer and sometimes a few in the Autumn. So capercaillies came to be the poultry of Narnian farms and the eggs they laid were extremely good for you.

Gwyn's mother was called Angharad and she had grown up halfway to Beruna in a forester's lodge. Her mother was a linden dryad whose tree grew nearby and during the spring frolics she had taken a liking to a young man called Sid who lived and worked there. 

Angharad’s mother had remained in human form long enough to bear a girl child and nurse her till she was weaned. But after this, she had returned to her ethereal existence as a being inside the tree. She only re-emerged and came to see Sid or her daughter at the equinox, the solstice or on the rare occasions when Aslan openly visited Narnia and showed himself to the people at large. This had been terribly hard for Angharad and she had been fostered to Sid's sister and mother who gave her all the love they could. 

But Angharad had also learned that if she approached her mother's tree directly at other times that she could commune with her mother, share her doubts and angers and disappointments as well as seek her advice and comfort on all manner of things, in some ways more deeply than with anyone else... and she learned many secrets. So it was that Angharad had the knack of approaching any linden tree and could lay her hands upon it and ask for rumour of events far off.

So, after she got the pot on the stove to simmer with onions, greens, some grains, Angharad left Gwyn and went outside with no lantern. 

A few stars were already strewn across the sky, winking and burning but mostly muffled by cloud. Across the house-yard was an ancient linden that towered over the capercaillie coop. She respectfully bowed her head, murmured a few words, closed her eyes and carefully laid her hands on its trunk. 

The leaves of the tree whispered and rustled in the slight evening breeze. She remained this way for some time in the darkness, occasionally touching her forehead to the trunk to deepen her concentration. Angharad stood there for some minutes and at one point a shudder moved through her body. Then she steadied and became very still. 

The full moon rose, showing the orange face of late summer through a crack in the clouds. 

After a few more minutes of silence she turned and brushed her hands off on her apron and strode briskly back towards the house. 

At that moment, she heard the jingle of Rastus's bell, a short bark and the tramping of feet and with relief saw a torchlight bobbing into the houseyard. She knew her husband Albanac had returned with Rastus and Clive, and hopefully with all three missing goats.

Yes, the goats were back. She was sure she could see all three in the torch light carried by Albanac. The gleam of his dark hair and glow of his brown skin was a welcome sight. He looked tired but didn't speak yet. He gave her a smile. 

"Well Angharad", bleated Rastus, "That husband of yours certainly needed all our help. If it hadn't been for Clive's forcefulness, and my gentle persuasion and charm, no doubt we'd all be stuck back in that thicket." 

Angharad knew without asking that the truth would be slightly different, but she held her tongue and simply said "well thank goodness you're all back safe and sound, Aslan be praised." 

Angharad was almost certain that Clive muttered something about Aslan not having much to do with it, but as he was also panting loudly and licking his chops as bulldogs do, she could not be quite sure. So she made a fuss and gave Clive a nice bone to crunch near the fire and she made Rastus a hot mash by pouring hot water over some chaff, vegetable peelings and a handful of oats. 

After Rastus had chewed this over thoroughly, he said he'd rather get the spooked goats settled back in properly than watch Clive and the humans eat his poor dumb cousins. So off he went down the track to their fold. A thick summer mountain fog had begun to come in from the east and with a bound, his tall curving horns were lost in it before you could say "pea soup".

When Albanac came back from taking the goats down into the fold, Angharad looked into Albanac's dark friendly eyes, gave him a long grateful hug, and they held each other, whilst she whispered something in his ear. Then she went to the pot on the stove, threw in some sausages and gave it a stir. Albanac gave her a meaningful stare for a moment, shrugged, smiled, took off his boots, washed his aching feet in a bowl of hot water, rubbed them with some sharp smelling ointment and then pulled on some soft buckskin slippers. 

As soon as this was done, he washed his hands in some more water, leapt up nimbly, laid the table in a flash with a cloth, platters and mugs, went to the bench and quickly mixed some flour and water and oil and before you could say "pat-a-cake-pat-a-cake" began to cook little flat bread rounds in the skillet on top of the stove.

Gwyn, in the meantime put some goats’ milk on to simmer in a pot and a little vinegar ready to make it curdle.  
Nearby he had a little piece of washed cheesecloth across a bowl, ready to squeeze the curds. When the rounds of bread were nearly ready, in went a little splash of vinegar and a pinch of salt and after about twenty stirs in each direction, he tipped the whole mess slowly into the cheesecloth until most of the whey was in the bowl, deftly twisted the cheesecloth and squeezed the rest out hard. The cheese went onto the platter. 

Half the whey he tipped into a special wooden bowl on the floor carved with "Clive". Then Gwyn threw a handful of barley into the whey bowl with some dried plums and put it aside to soak for breakfast. He did all this with marked attention to precision and efficiency; he was a good study of his elders, but his expression was a little tense and his mind seemed elsewhere.

Clive was still crunching his bone but somehow managed to make a remark that sounded rather like "Thanks, I know I deserve it now, but I'll drink it later", except it was punctuated with slaverings and gruntings and swallowing sounds, so one couldn't be sure.

Then, it was time for supper and the three humans sat down on three legged stools, and they ate sausages and vegetables in onion soup with fresh white cheese on the little rounds of bread, using carved wooden spoons and carved wooden bowls. After a few minutes of careful eating and praise for each other's efforts, Albanac leaned his elbows on the table and said to Gwyn, "Your mother tells me you saw something today that took you by surprise, would you like to share it with me?".

Gwyn's eyes widened, looked a little uncertain for a moment and then began... "Well, it was up in Torman's Reach. I went to the 5 cataracts, trying to catch some scampi for this soup”.

“But I had no luck. I tried each cataract about three times each! So I got tired… and bored… so I just watched fish but I looked up in time to watch a great big Gryphon come swooping down the valley. Could he have been from Anvard? He had the royal colours on his leg jesses anyway, red and gold! He was so close! I never saw a Gryphon that close before..." 

Gwyn had started very calm and matter of fact but had quickly became animated.

"No son, that's a rare thing"

"And it looked pretty urgent! And sounded urgent too..."

"Sounded?" asked Albanac?

"I'm not sure what it said, but it called to me as it went over." said Gwyn, "Anyway, it screeched out something. I couldn't catch the words, maybe something about danger but I couldn't hear it so good. It just went over so fast... and it was in a big hurry!", he finished.

"I bet it was. It is said that those Royal Gryphons never show themselves unless there is some very urgent business at hand that won't wait. I've heard they usually just prowl around guarding the kings' and queens' treasure hoards, sleep with one eye open at night and go out hunting for wild wolves and the White Stag, if they can catch them.” 

“Then of course there are the pair that guard the Tree of Protection in Lantern Waste. I've seen them there. People bring them offerings. Live animals of course” he added. “They say they won't eat the apples.”

Albanac's eyes went comically wide “Ah me" he laughed, "I've often imagined what it must look like, a gryphon trying to eat an apple? I wonder if they do when no-one's looking."

Gwyn giggled. Albanac tilted his head to one side and thought for a moment. 

"But then, let's see, if it was flying quickly from Anvard to Cair Paravel it probably had a very urgent message between the royalty. And if it was about danger that could mean either Narnia or Archenland are in danger…or one of the Kings or Queens is… and if you were warned of danger too it's likely because danger is coming this way. We might have to get out of harm's way. Narnia might be in danger and maybe Archenland already is or knows about it and is giving warning or something. Maybe it’s even calling for help!” he finished. 

"Or could we be just letting our imaginations get away from us?" offered Angharad, noticing Gwyn's alarmed look. "Maybe it was just running an errand in a hurry and thought it was time Gwyn came home, or got away from the river for some reason. There might have been a flashflood coming. You never know after these summer storms far up in the mountains."

"Oh... yes, point taken my dear. I didn't think of that. I could be overreacting. But Gwyn was right to speak of this don't you think? Either way something urgent might be happening and we need to know all we can just in case."

"Yes we do", Angharad agreed. “We don’t want to be worrying for no good reason, but we don’t want to disregard a warning when it is offered, especially from one of the Royal Gryphons.” She paused. "So I did a bit of 'listening out' on my own account. Just as you were coming home earlier. I didn't note much near here though. None of the linden trees in Southern Narnia seemed to know anything. I just got sleepy green hums and creaks from most of them. Mother Linden was alert though, she must have felt my questing, but there was nothing unusual in Narnia that I could tell. So she said she'd try to find something too.”

“Anyway, with her along with me, and the home tree here; though its dryad's not up to much; don't tell her I said that Gwyn, that's a dead secret”, she said in an aside. “We listened up the Archen Valley and we finally did get an echo of something troubling. No words, no shape, no message really, hard to describe to people without half heritage like me. Like some things are just blotted out, we could not take our thoughts into the far tendrils.”

“But then, faintly, further up, further out, a sense of something... like a creeping foreboding. The dryads much further up the Archen valley seem to be feeling it keener. I'm hoping it doesn't mean that whatever the problem is, isn't slowly coming down. Whether it’s just some fear that's been taken up or something solid you can grasp, who knows? ”

“Sounds uncomfortable enough Ang, whichever it is.” said Albanac. “But it's best left till morning before we think about whether there's anything to do. Let the messenger birds bring us clearer news if there's any to be had, don’t you think? ”, he added. 

Then he added kindly when he saw Gwyn's alarmed face, “If you feel a'feared son, you can snuggle in with us tonight if that helps. ”

And Clive was heard to mutter, “Yes and if something wicked sneaks in here in the dead of night, the resident bulldog will take care of everything I suppose. ”


	4. Armouthe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are introduced to the small coastal city which is the seat of the Queen of Archenland. There we meet some new characters and begin to get a sense of Archenland as it could have been, culturally and racially complex with a range of beings living and contributing to its society and economy. We are particularly introduced to two characters, a Calormene woman and a Talking Cat who will feature later in the story.

Chapter 3: Armouthe 

It had been a glorious day. 

There were tall masses of clouds building over the sea again, but were lit like gold against the blue eastern sky as the sun sank into the western mountains. A moderately warm breeze played in the cypresses and cork oaks and wild olives in the steep hills above Armouthe. Their canopies tossed and rippled on the slopes above the stone-lined gravel streets.

Red roofed houses and white washed walls could be seen rising up here and there amongst the trees. Separated from the main town by a wide sloping park, the main keep and courts, royal library and apartments of Her Majesty Queen Esme 1st rose in four tiers, with three gleaming turrets looking east across the town. The Archen Healing Houses and Prison lay just to the west separated by a high wall. The market place, granaries and smoking houses hugged the lower slopes, sprawling along the edge of the firth with piers and masts of the main port trailing to the east down towards the estuary.

On a sharp bend in one of the main streets as it wound up the hill was a big spreading cypress, its lower boughs nearly raking the ground. It would have made a wonderful hiding place for anyone playing hide and seek. The tidal waters of the Winding Arrow rippled as the tide advanced up the firth. Several tall masted ships could be seen coming in and if you had looked very carefully a pod of dolphins made a ragged line across the waters hoping to catch any fish being brought in on the tide.

Echoing lightly could be heard the sound of light hooves, clop, clop, clippety clop, clatter, clitter, slither, thump. Anyone sitting there quietly waiting might have thought it was a small pony that had slipped over. But instead of a neigh or an animal grunt came curses and a laugh. Moments later three figures came around the corner into view. One was limping slightly and rubbing his leg.

“Daddy!” In a flash a tiny dark shape detached itself from the tree and hit the ground running, and with little hooves neatly poised, jumped and clipped its way onto the wall and down the street and up into its fathers arms, for all the world like an ibex kid on a cliff face. It was a small faun child. Her tiny horn bumps were scarcely to be seen in her curly black hair, but her father’s narrow horns protruded clearly from his black home spun cap. 

He chuckled indulgently, “Well met merry one”, and swept her up in his arms and then nearly fell over again. It was he who had fallen in the street. But he corrected himself just in time and his friends’ sturdy arms reached out to hold him fast. The little faun snuggled into her father’s arms for a few moments, but she was so excited, she quickly wriggled and skipped her way onto his shoulders and settled there, her hooves locked tightly around his neck. Her black eyes danced in glee as she leaned backwards giggling, holding tightly to his horns.

One of her father’s friends called, “have a care, you’ll tip your poor da’ Darius over again”.

Her father crouched down and spun about face to prevent her weight tipping him backwards down the street. For her father was a faun of course, only about 4 or so feet high, lithe and with dark red brown skin, glossy black hair and fleece and charcoal horns and hooves. He was wearing a black woolen vest to match his cap. He caught his daughter off his shoulders and swung her forward to carry in his arms again. 

His shipmates (for they were fishermen) were a middle-aged red-haired satyr with pale freckly skin, cool blue eyes, ivory horns and hooves, and was wearing a white and grey fair isle vest and a blue neckerchief, whilst the third was a tall brown skinned young man with a haughty look but a ready smile. He was dressed in airy brown trousers of flax and a stained weskit of white homespun. He wore a red scarf on his head, knotted at the nape and a shark tooth dangling from one ear. All three carried leathern satchels and empty water skins slung over their shoulders and they all smelt of fish.

“Say hello to your Uncle Phoroneus, Viola!” instructed her father, as the wee thing suddenly became shy and hid her face in her father’s hair. Phoroneus the satyr nodded his head, smiled and said, “and to our young friend here Amin”.

“Hello there young one, nice to make your acquaintance at last. I’ve heard so much about you”, said the young man in a friendly tone. 

The young faun Viola wriggled again and jumped down, leaping along the street, up onto walls and back down again as she raced ahead. It was then that they noticed that she had filched several sardines from her father’s satchel and had them firmly clenched in her teeth as she skittered ahead along the top of the walled bank to the right. 

Her father and his friends laughed fondly and strode up the street until they got to the next corner, whereupon Viola leapt full upon her father’s shoulders again and settled down at last, chewing the sardines with satisfaction.  


They all turned left and went further up into the dusk. After a short step, the young man waved goodbye, and went into a house nearby, whilst the faun and satyr trotted up the hill further into the gloom of a huge cork oak tree before hopping through a dimly seen stile into a sloping field and disappearing into a copse towards a little spire of smoke.

If you had been sitting quietly nearby at that moment, you might have seen a shadow slide out from the larger gloom of the cork oak and glide back down the street. It melted into the line of shrubs outside the nearest house and disappeared. After a good minute the shadow slithered up some steps onto a porch, stood on its hind-legs and pulled on a bell cord. A faint jingle could be heard. Then a short moment later, a dark door opened and the shadow disappeared inside.

“Something’s up”, someone growled softly “and I’m not happy about it, just as I thought that I’d got myself a well-earned rest from all my watching, reporting and other skulking tomfoolery… TRYING to get by those blasted palace cats!" It exclaimed, "Haven’t had time to really hunt a good rat in months! Oh... and please latch that door” the voice added anxiously, still in an undertone.

The sounds of the door being latched and a lamp being lit echoed faintly and then a haze of light revealed the glaring yellow and black eyes of a big smoky-grey wildcat and the high cheek-bone features of Amin who had knelt down to welcome his guest.

At that moment, a far door at the end of the hall opened, and a woman’s voice called out “Is that you Amin? Who have you got with you? I thought I heard another voice. Bring your friend in if you want. Dinner’s ready! There's plenty to spare.”  


"Come on" Amin shrugged and led the way. He went through the door and closed it behind him, the wildcat closely at his heels.

"Where’s your friend Amin? Did he leave?" The cat slithered in silently, body held close to the floor and slipped under the table not saying a word. "Aaarrggh!" she yelled, jumping backwards and grasping wildly for some to defend herself with. "What’s in Tash's name is under my table?" she demanded, brandishing the tongs most threateningly in the cat's direction.

"Mother! It's only Cloudstreak", the young man protested in a pained tone.

"Oh... are you sure?" She bent down peering. "Cloudstreak! It IS you! We haven't seen you in over a year. We thought you were dead!" she exclaimed. “You gave me such a fright, you slunk in like a burglar! I wish you would announce yourself!” snapped the woman. 

“It comes with the job mistress, I’m sorry. I just get so used to slinking in, and slinking around, and slinking underneath. In the pay of the Royals you know, civic duty, national security and all,” he drawled.

“In the pay of the Royals? Balderdash! A likely story. You talk a lot of rot for a cat and that’s a fact. What does one pay a cat anyway? I want to know.”

“Good question”, he drawled. "Well, fish would be one thing. I could smell it from across the street. I could tell that young Amin here had a few fresh river trout in his satchel and I was rather hoping to miss the mad scramble down on the docks for scraps and guts. Besides, it’s not becoming to my station.” He sniffed.

"Station? Humph!" She reached over and tweaked Amin’s shoulder strap and peaked inside. “Yes, trout. Amin, please get out one of those trout and fillet it for the poor cat, anything to keep his mouth full for a while! And YOU!", she said pointed her tongs at Amin, "You could have said something before you came into my kitchen” she accused.  


Amin winced slightly but did his mother’s bidding and went out through the rear door into the laneway.

Somehow she knew just the tone to take with any person or animal she met and he had yet to match her skill. Despite being her son, he was a gentle soul and was sometimes still taken aback by his mother’s brashness. But he knew it was how she had survived and he admired her for it. For his mother had been a refugee from Calormen and had been through many travails. 

In her life's career she had been adventuring in Narnia and had trysted with a rivergod, a guardian of a waterfall and a dark pool in the deep forest. That was now twenty years ago and Amin was the result. But like all such relationships, it was short-lived and Amin’s father had retreated back to his divine waters when winter came after an all too brief season of bliss.

But all that was long ago. Since coming back to Archenland from two years in Narnia, she had put her training and knowledge to good use and had been able to make contact with travelling pedlars from Narnia and traders from ships down the coast and arrange for stocks of the secret herbs she needed for her work and the high quality paper and parchment she needed for her charts and cards to help in her reading of the fates and the stars.  


There were several centaurs she had met in Narnia and in the upper reaches of Archenland but their knowledge and intuitions were far too esoteric for her and, as she found, so too for most of the town and country women she had come to call friends and clients. 

The centaurs were good on the fates of kingdoms and the meaning of the movement of stars in relation to great events in the world and the currents of politics between one nation and another, but this did not help much those who needed guidance on whether they could choose to have no more children or how likely it was that a husband or son would return from the sea after many months away.  


So passed her days and in her way she became a wise woman and had even been called upon by Queen Esme’s mother when she had been looking to produce a male heir, although Gladioli had had nothing to give her apart from consolation and the courage to face her husband and require that he accept his eldest daughter as his heir.

Amin was Gladioli’s pride and joy and hope for her old age. She was lucky to be a townswoman as the ease of living so close to the centre of things meant enough business to rent her house and give her son an education and choices in work. 

Yet the truth was, out of all the many things available, he had chosen to work on the fishing boats and in the right season in the olive groves, picking, salting and pressing.  


So sometimes she was a little disappointed that he had chosen these occupations, but she knew it was early days and that other chances may yet come his way. She had cast the bones and read his cards, but so far nothing else seemed to be indicated on the horizon. 

However, she did appreciate that he had been learning to read the tide and the currents of the estuary, how to tack a boat with ease, and how to bring food to the table. And it was true, the smell of fish did get a bit much sometimes but then what should she expect? It was a port and a fishing town. And there was always some treasure he would bring home. Last week it had been a huge pearl the size of a pigeon’s egg, the week before that a rare sea creature that contained the exact type of ink which could be used both for writing and in the preparation of a potion to give to women who had just given birth. And only a few days before, a pair of huge lobsters had been plunked down on her chopping board. 

“To tell the truth”, she said to herself at other times, “there really is not a lot to complain about in my son.”

Cloudstreak, as he was known incognito by most of his Armouthe acquaintances, fell onto the filleted fish with a grateful sigh. Gladioli had been right. Cloudstreak needed to fill his mouth and belly with good food in the safe and welcoming company of friends and to calm down. 

She stood with her hands on her hips watching him appraisingly with her bright dark eyes, noticing the tension gradually ease from his body as he tackled the task with delicacy but great efficiency.

It was clear that the cat was hungry. Before long the two fillets were gone, skin and all and the cat’s yellow eyes were wandering back to the leather satchel that still contained some more fish. 

Then he caught Gladioli’s eyes watching him amused. She laughed and he began to primly lick his paws and wash his whiskers, turning away from her, pretending disdain. She knew better. This was not the first time Cloudstreak had blessed her with his presence and she knew that he was carrying some secret or other that he wouldn’t tell and was just waiting for her to offer to do a reading for him to relieve his mind. But she knew the moment would come in good time, and instead ladled out some herbed chowder in a pair of bowls for herself and Amin.

Amin came back in after having a wash outside in the lane to get the worst of the fishiness from his hands and face. He was now ready for his own dinner. His black hair was damp and slicked back from his face. He took a little geranium scented ointment from a salver on the dresser and rubbed it into his hands and face, then took a clean rag from a bag and rubbed his hands vigorously.

Cloudstreak curled up in a corner of the kitchen on the rug and dozed whilst Amin and Gladioli began their repast. Before eating, they both made a prayer of thanksgiving to Aslan and then Gladioli lit a trio of Calormene incense sticks, one to Zardeenah, one to Azaroth and one to Tash that were already placed just behind a small stoneware vessel filled with flowers.

They ate slowly in silence, savouring each morsel. A small tan and grey moth fluttered about the lamps for a few minutes before alighting on the flowers, sipping. It was more than a half hour later as Amin finished second helpings that they topped off with a mouthful each of watered wine, Gladioli tipped her head meaningfully towards Cloudstreak and then Amin spoke. 

“Cloudstreak, are you awake?”

“Hmmm?” An ear twitched and he opened an eye, fixing it on Amin.

“You spoke earlier about something that was bothering you.”

“Did I?” 

“Oh come on Cloudstreak. You know you did. We both know you came here with troubles and more than just irritation with palace cats”, retorted Amin.

“ Well, ye-es, I guess I did didn’t I?”

“H-hmmm.. Is now alright? Do you want to talk about it?”

“Ye-es. Can’t though”, he answered shortly.

“Why not?” 

“I think we’ve been through this before, top secret”. 

“Fair enough, but you know we won’t talk. I have never even mentioned you to Darius and Uncle Phoroneus... and my dear mother knows better than to blabber in her profession”, Amin added with a grin. Gladioli raised her eyebrows and tipped her head forward in assent.

“That’s not what I’m concerned about. I am sworn to utmost secrecy and I shouldn’t have even told you who I’m in the pay of. Please don’t press me. To tell you the truth, I’m actually concerned for your safety if I’m even seen here. We don’t know who is watching. Or listening… I can’t bear to think of either of you or any of your friends getting into the hands of the… ”, he stopped himself suddenly and closed his eyes and held his breath for a moment. 

“The Royals? But they’re our rulers, they are sworn to protect us not harm us.”

“I wasn’t talking about the Royals mistress, I was talking about something deep and dark and very evil. I can’t say any more.” he said frustratingly.

“What? Here in Armouthe?! This backwater?”, barked Gladioli before she could stop herself.

“Don’t mock fate Mistress!” the cat retorted, hissing slightly. 

“It’s where you have chosen to live because it gave you a haven of safety as well as connection to the outside world. Backwater it may appear to be but it is the centre of power in the nation in which you live and that draws many watchers. The places I have been over the last year compare to Armouthe as the deep desert compares to Tehishbaan or Asim Balda. But things are stirring there in the west and the north that frighten me more than my worst nightmares. Until now. Now they do come into my nightmares and make them worse than ever. I almost turned into a dumb witless cat a few weeks ago because of it. It’s chiefly the stabilising nature of friends and allies like you that I have been able to hold some semblance of equanimity and intelligence together along the way back.” 

Gladioli and Amin both looked perturbed. Gladioli's eyes hardened with concern. There was a silence. Amin shifted uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry Cloudstreak, I’m suitably chastened”, Gladioli finally offered. “But I do want to offer you some solace. I take it you haven’t made your report yet? And it really is to the Royals?”

“That’s right mistress, on both counts.”

“But why ever not?”

“I’m a little ashamed to say. To tell you the truth, it’s because I’m unsure who to go to first. I’m terrified of my superior who I am really meant to report to first. Almost more terrified of her than the news I’ll be bringing. Now… I’ve said too much. She’ll have my guts for garters. I can’t begin to guess how the new Queen will deal with my news whomever delivers it, but I am considering reporting straight to her. I am authorised to, you know, but I don’t want to get on the wrong side of either of them.” 

“So you wouldn’t say no if I cast the bones or read the cards for you?”

“Well no, I wouldn’t, but I don’t want you to ask me any more questions. Your wisdom about what you see would be sufficient. I just need to work out where to start my task.”

“Enough!” Gladioli clapped her hands and said, “Come into the reading room with me. Amin, I want you as witness. Just check all the doors and windows are secure before you come in if you would my son.”

She stepped into the front hallway with a lit taper and walked along the wide shadowy hall towards the front door. There were three rooms on the left and none on the right, which was hung with hooks and shelves holding clothes. She unlocked the second door with a key hanging from her belt.

Cloudstreak stalked behind her and poked his head around the door, his night eyes large in the gloom. It was not a large room and he could make out two large round cushions on the floor either side of a deer-skin mat. Gladioli went about lighting four tall, thick, pale gold beeswax candles; one at each corner of the room, almost as if they stood guard. From the ceiling there hung a brass oil lamp surrounded by hanging crystals, which she also lit. The crystals immediately caught the light of the flame and directed it downwards, creating a warm pool of light on the mat. From a chest to one side, Gladioli took a small cloth bag rattling with bones and a deck of cards.

She kicked a third cushion towards the centre and sat down on it herself, cross-legged, directing Cloudstreak to take the one on her left. In a moment, Amin came in, locked the door and took the other cushion.  


From a small vial, Gladioli took a single drop of rosemary oil onto her finger and anointed Cloudstreak’s forehead, before rubbing the residue into her hands and hair.

Amin pulled out a forked Narnian pipe from his pocket and carefully placing it on his lips, began to play a slow, seven note minor chord scale. After about ten cycles with small variations, Cloudstreak’s neck and scalp fur began to stand on end. He felt himself descend into a pensive reflective mood. The damp oil patch on his forehead seemed to warm slightly. His claws which had begun to stretch and claw the cushion became entirely still.  


The music trailed off.

Meanwhile, Gladioli had shuffled through the deck of cards and taken one out. It was the Nine of Beasts and Birds which depicted a sleek cat playing with nine balls of yarn. She had placed this on the deer-skin mat in front of Cloudstreak. She said “This represents you.” 

She then cut the deck three times and shuffled. She placed the whole deck to the left of the Nine of Beasts and Birds and quietly asked him to place his left paw on the deck and his right paw on his own card and consider his question with his eyes closed. 

This he did and after a pause, he withdrew his paws and looked at her for the next instruction. She cut the deck into three stacks and asked the cat to choose one. He chose the right stack, tapping with his left paw. She pushed the other cards aside, took his chosen stack, shuffled again, cut it into three sets and asked him to choose again. He chose the central pile this time. From this slim pile she counted out the first ten cards, pushed the rest aside and laid the ten out face-up one by one facing Cloudstreak. 

The first: The Subject she used to cover the Nine of Beasts & Birds. "This is The Tower. Lightning striking and a change of power. Doubt and unhappiness with one’s lot. In need of a change. A dramatic card whether it is in reference to the outer world or the inner one. It could be about both". 

The second position was The Challenges, which crossed the Tower. "This card is the Nine of Knives. A card of despair and mental distress. As you can see there is a large black bird perched on one of the knives thrust into a lying figure, fear of fear that often means and a black dog howling in the distance which usually means depression and a call for help". Cloudstreak knew this card. Had seen it before in a previous reading. He also knew it was challenging him to not shy away from his task, but to see it through despite this fears. 

The third card: Destiny was then placed above the others. "This is the Seven of Knives. As the destiny card it means it pays to be decisive but to follow the consequences and take responsibility."  


“Oh dear” moaned Cloudstreak, “Exactly what I already knew. I think that reinforces the previous one."

“Be patient!” warned Gladioli softly. “The cards usually only tell us what we already know, even if deep down. It’s the cards that make you puzzled are the ones we’ll need to look at more closely.”

The fourth The Distant Past was the Ace of Trees. "This shows a laden apple tree with a lion’s paw emerging from the branches holding out an apple. It is the card of hope, love, promise, sustenance and protection. This card is possibly about the very ancient past, very old magic from the Dawn of Time. That is better, much better… it suggests that Aslan or the Tree of Protection in Narnia will have a very powerful role in this. It becomes more hopeful"

"The fifth card is about the Recent Past though. It is the Five of Coins, the card of poverty and hardship. Any mysteries there?" 

"No Mistress", intoned Cloudstreak, "No mysteries there at all. The life of myself and my compatriots has been exceedingly difficult."

"The sixth, the Immediate Future is the Queen of Coins! A leader of distinction and a clear head. Well that's looking promising."

Cloudstreak huffed with relief. At least he knew his next first step now. He had been dreading it would be the Five of Beasts & Birds, the Raven.

Gladioli drew out four more cards and laid them to the right of the others in a vertical line.

"Seventh. This is your Attitude. The card is the Chariot. This is about you and your willpower, control, and assertion. Well, that is also something." Cloudstreak sighed primly. He knew he couldn’t have got this far without a fair bit of that. He would obviously need some more.

"Eighth card. This is about the External Influences. It is the Ten of Swords. Death, betrayal, slaughter but with a distant end in sight. A very unhappy card. This suggests that death and betrayal will not occur here or to you Cloudstreak, but it will influence events for some time to come and occur elsewhere." Cloudstreak stared across at Amin and Gladioli, shifting between the two. He could see their concern. He thought he could predict some of the possibilities. 

"Ninth is your Inner Emotions. The card is the Two of Knives. Indecision, insecurity, fear. You need to be making sure you keep on top of these Cloudstreak, remember the warning about being decisive?" Cloudstreak’s eyes glared. No more! He snarled silently and hissed. He was sick of this self betrayal. He thought about the fourth card and wished it had been in this spot instead.  
"Tenth and lastly, The Outcome. It is... the Page of Trees..? A person of enthusiasm, heroism and adventure? How can that be the outcome?" It was this last that was the only one that Gladioli... and Cloudstreak for that matter was unsure about. He said so.

“Like always Mistress, there is nothing much new there that I didn’t already understand. It is clear that I have to make a decision and simply act. My shock and insecurity are threatening my effectiveness, at the crucial moment. There are four cards out of the ten that carry something more positive. These are the promise of Aslan from the distant past, his Tree of Protection and Love stands fast still. The Queen of Coins is clearly young Esme and I must speak to her at once. I’m glad she’s got a good head on her shoulders. I’m being told to be decisive and to be assertive and controlled. Actually I am sure I can do that. But the Page of Trees I cannot identify. Someone whom I will ultimately meet or who will influence what is going to happen, either to me or the wider world perhaps?”

“Possibly one or the other… or both?” proffered Gladioli. “I can read again or cast the bones to look into that further if you like”.

Cloudstreak considered this for a moment. “If you could let me sleep on it, I’d be grateful.” he said. “Perhaps I could return once I have delivered my news. There may be more questions then.”  
She nodded. “Well, no matter how long it takes. You know where we are.”

They unlatched the door and Cloudstreak slept fitfully in the kitchen. By prior arrangement, Amin came down the hall from his room while it was still dark and let him out into the back lane.  
Amin stroked Cloudstreak’s head and rubbed his ears affectionately. Cloudstreak responded with a purr and before long was headbutting Amin's leg.

“Come on now Cloudstreak, time to get moving, I'm going back to bed for a few moments after I've made mother her morning draught. I hope you get in and out okay. Sounds like the palace cats don’t know what’s good for them. And please give my respects to the Queen,” he added with a grin. Only Cloudstreak could have seen it in the gloom. 

Cloudstreak doubted the Queen would have met the fisherman but he didn’t doubt that with a good wash and scrub and some finer clothes, Amin might brush up very well. It was with these entertaining thoughts that Cloudstreak braced himself for his next encounter and slid off into the pre-dawn darkness.


	5. Esme and Tobermory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet the young Queen of Archenland in the midst of her day and witness her encounter with the smokey grey Wildcat we met the night before in Gladioli's house. We begin to learn a little about the looming danger that threatens the world.

Chapter 4: Esme and Tobermory 

Queen Esme sighed, rubbed her eyes wearily and pushed aside the papers she had been studying at the tall window of her private apartment that flooded her desk with light. 

The demands of government were never ending for the monarch of Archenland. From the solving of merchant disputes and neighbourly village misunderstandings to international diplomacy and trade, to mishaps and murders, it was all in a week's work.  


She truly felt honoured and blessed to have been born to the task of arbitrator and magistrate. It called to her natural instincts. 

But having been thrust into the task untimely by the death of her father in a hunting accident only five months ago, she did at times feel a need for greater guidance in a challenging world. 

So many small concerns to be seen to in this small but complex nation which sat between the two wildly disparate ones of Narnia and Calormen. Despite Calormen originally being established by outlaws from Archenland, and therefore Archenland's natural antagonist, her reading of history and recent experience told her that Archenland actually stood as a buffer state, often playing intermediary between the idealistic and idyllic Narnia and their expansive and hotheaded mutual southern neighbour. 

"Oh, Aslan, give me guidance and courage", she prayed, with her hand palm upwards, heel to the forehead, then gazing up at the carving of the great lion carved into the keystone over the long window.

She then took a long draught of her now cold tisane and stood stretching, feeling the joints pop as she eased some tension in her upper back and shoulders. She massaged her jaw and yawned, looking out the tall window, which gave her a clear view down the firth of the Winding Arrow. 

The shipping had thinned, just a few small boats at anchor at the the oyster farms which here and there raked the edges of the southern bank. She could just glimpse the bluff of the southern headland behind the forest-cloaked hills of the northern side. 

It was then that she heard a discreet cough and she whirled, a quill and papers scattering. "Silly!" she chided herself, she had courtiers stationed right outside every door, "no need to react so strongly". Bizarrely, in that split second, she also realised she still had not established her general character as Queen; cool as a cucumber, warm and vivacious or imperious and commanding. So she did not have an appropriate response for what met her eyes.

Sitting sedately on the plump couch in the middle of the chamber was a large smoke-grey wild cat with torn ears. Yellow eyes with pupils slitted in the morning sunlight flooding from the window gazed at her intently.

"I prefer to not be announced into your Royal presence if I can help it" he said drily. "Some matters are best kept so discreet that the nature of the messenger also has to remain secret."

She eyed his dimensions, teeth and claws speculatively. If he was an assassin, he could do her some serious damage, but if he had been an assassin, surely he would have just attacked first? 

She decided on imperious and commanding. "And you are?", her eyes never leaving his. "How long have you been in my Royal presence... sir! Answer me now, or I shall call my guards."

"Certainly your Majesty, I slipped in just now. Calling your guards wouldn't do much good. My paths of egress from this august establishment are hard by and I know them too well to be caught. Besides I wouldn't be able to deliver the message as comfortably as I intend to do. Why don't you sit down and listen to what I have to say? I'm sure both our days will be much easier if we can proceed with this first interview in comfort.

Esme blinked and swallowed. An imperterbible drawling wildcat in her inner apartments was a new experience for her. And somehow she doubted that last statement. "Very well, master cat, you have ten minutes". She picked one of a series of sand glasses and upended it smartly on a small table.

"Good, I knew you'd see sense. You're much like your father. Well, I'll come to the point. My name in spy circles is Tobermory. My business is the security of Archenland. My methods are dubious. My length of service is, let's see, umm, eight years now, nearly 15 times the period that has passed since your dear father, departed from this world for Aslan's country.”

“I entered your father's service as a ratter when I was barely one year old; I can get to places those silly terriers can't and I saw and heard things in these places that would make your hair stand on end. That was when I decided to join your father's spy network.”

“He took some convincing I must say. But a talking wildcat like me who knows when to stop talking, who can keep his mouth shut and can pretend to be one of my poor benighted dumb cousins can get a long way in the wild.”

“I have worked steadfastly in Archenland's service ever since. I am sorry that we have never been introduced before and I am very sorry indeed that I gave you such a surprise a few moments ago. A professional liability I'm afraid."

"Indeed it is", she reflected quietly. But there was no evidence that he knew how to stop talking that she could detect so far. Still, he was here to talk, nay to report; if his story could be believed. 

Esme decided she definitely did not want to imagine what things he had seen and heard in the inaccessible places which rats inhabited. But she did wonder what motivated a cat, even a talking wildcat to bother entering the spy service of Archenland and what possible benefits it could gain. Money would hardly be an object. She must find out. 

She kept listening to this remarkable apparition. He lowered his voice.

"My news is for your ears alone Your Majesty. Whom you choose to share it with locally and in the hierarchy is of course your royal prerogative, but I would strongly advise extreme caution. There is evidence that forces of ill will are infiltrating the marches of Telmar and Western Archenland.”

“It is even possible that there may even be those here in Armouthe and the closer provincial areas who are not to be trusted.”

“Your other spies will be better able to report on that front. I was sent on my most recent mission nearly one year ago based on a very slim lead. I have had many adventures of which I would rather not speak but I must report that the lead is no longer slim but clear and strong. I can now report we have enemies on our doorstep, nay under our very noses. I do not know their final object, but I believe it is bigger than Archenland. It may even be nothing less than the subjugation of Narnia, Archenland, Telmar, Calormen, Ettinsmoor and all the Island nations. I did return yesterday morning, and I beg your majesty's pardon; I would have come to you sooner, only your palace cats are better guards than I took them for. 

He licked a paw and wiped it across his left ear. A bead of blood still glistened there. 

He really was a complex person, she realised. His verbal urbanity and grammar suggested private tutoring, yet he was no house cat. He was clearly a Wildcat, a catamountain to be sure, who seemed to have roamed far and suffered much. 

Esme decided she needed to take him on face value. "Why now and not earlier?" Esme queried. 

"Well, it is quite a trek. As you know, the Western March lies on the other end of the entire Archen Range which is at least a full month's journey even for a sturdy mountain pony and I did travel into the northern side right into the Western Wild. I had to go into semi-hibernation for most of last winter too, which was unfortunate."

"Why do you say unfortunate sir? I would have considered it a most natural pass-time for your kind." 

"Oh, certainly it is, hard to resist really, nothing like the deep slumber of winter, but it was unfortunate because it's in winter that those I am concerned about are most active."

Esme must have looked slightly puzzled. In her experience everything slowed down in winter and she couldn't imagine what or whom could be more active in it.

Oh, you don't know the worst of it yet" he drawled, eyeing her almost pityingly.

"But what human or Talking Beast ever gets more active in winter?", she whispered. Now she was agog.

"Well, it's a delicate matter. I'm not sure I can manage it right this moment. I'm frightfully scared you won't believe me". 

Now Tobermory (or Cloudstreak) really began to wash his face in earnest. It was the first indication that Esme had had of any lack of equilibrium in the creature. This was clearly difficult for him. She opted for supportive and encouraging, but formal. 

"Pray tell, good sir. As I am the Queen, the person you ultimately report to, I must beg you to share the source of your discomfort. Whilst your deportment and manner of entrance may be... unorthodox... I do think that you have adequately demonstrated your... veracity. In short, I believe you."

He sighed. "Are you sure?"

"Of course. There, however horrible the source of this threat may appear to you, believe me, I am sure that I shall be able to bear it."

Tobermory looked at her for a long moment, and began licking his belly frantically.

Irritated, Esme unconsciously opted for imperious and demanding.

"Master cat, I demand that you complete your mission and disclose the nature of the threat you are avoiding telling me.... now!" She realised she had lost her cool as a cucumber and was shouting.

"Ssshshhh", he hissed, Esme wondered if he realised he had bared his teeth to her.

"Alright, alright not so loud." He paused, swallowing and cleared his throat. It all came out in a tumble. "What would you say if I said 'Werwolves... Spectres, Boggles, Hags, Orkneys, Efreets, Minotaurs, Incubuses, Giant Vampire Bats... oh, and people of the toadstools?" He glanced at her warily. "Alright, I think I've said enough." He licked his front legs frantically.

She didn't say anything. She was glaring at him. 

Then she looked away, her mouth working. Esme went pink, then white. Then with her eyes starting in her head, she didn't know whether to laugh or cry.  
This cat was such a fraud, so much was clear. For a moment she had been taken in by that fanciful rubbish. The joke had been on her. She stood, her heart beating hard and poured herself a little wine and water to steady herself. The ten minute glass had long since stopped. 

She found herself considering a fitting punishment that was within Archen law. This mischievous cat really ought to be held in the royal prison and questioned most assertively for entering her apartment without royal invitation and threatening her person, she could see to that. 

She felt like putting him in some cat sized stocks but that was punishment strictly for convicted rapists.

He was still watching her warily. 

"Oh dear, look, before you do anything rash, please, I beg you to read a document that concerns me closely. Your father filed a secret paper in a hidden compartment in his desk. I saw him put it there 5 years ago."

He leapt down from the couch and trotted over to her desk. He went underneath to the panel between the two left legs and patted a square of the mullioned design.

She momentarily considered sending for a courtier to perform the task of opening the panel, and then groaned when she realised that this entire desk could be filled with items of utmost secrecy and that she would have to do it herself. 

She scrambled down on her knees. Her robes impeded her slightly. It was the central panel of nine. She felt it carefully and pressed a little. It gave slightly on one side. This enabled her to get her finger nails in and she found it had a thin groove she could grasp and use it to slide the panel towards her.  
To her relief it gave a little then slid neatly out the way. It was a small space, only four inches wide and two inches deep. Inside was a small folded parchment. Esme felt for it with her fingers, managed to flip it out where it fell on the floor. She then backed out from under the desk, swept it out with a toe and picked it up.

It was waxed with the royal seal. She grabbed a blunt knife from the desk and slid it under the seal and unfolded the paper. Written in her father's own hand was the following note:  
"On this day, the 20th day of Greenroof, in the year 893, I King Erlian of Archenland did witness the swearing to the service of myself and mine heirs, one Tobermory Thincoat, a Talking Cat of unparalleled talent, truth and discretion, as spy. He has been taught the secret ways into and out of the castle of Armouthe and of Anvard so that he may come to myself or my heir at any time of day or night should we be in residence."

Queen Esme tapped her foot. "So my father has vouched for you and now I must accept your service too and your word I suppose. But you know this really this is too much! Efreets and Orknies? Sprites and what? Whoever heard of such things? Minotaurs? What fanciful rabble. I have heard of werwolves, it is true. I need advice on this. And who else is aware of your existence? Please hide for a few moments. I want you to hear what happens but I don't want you seen. Yet". 

Tobermory instantly obeyed, disappearing under one of credenzas to the left of the window, partly shrouded by a curtain. 

From here he murmured.  
"The head of the Archen Spy Network, Grand Raven Greyfeather knows of my existence and my identity. This has been kept clandestine from all but her.”  
“I have certainly taken orders from her under an assumed name (I have several of those) through intermediaries. Weasels and stoats mainly for they rarely have a clue what she's talking about and when they do, they can't keep a memory for more than 2 hours. Minds like sieves. Too easily distracted. They're paid off with a fat rabbit. Alive.” 

“She also has to do some special work on them first; the eye of Tash we call it. You know when a bird sidles up real close and fixes its eye on something? Well she tried it on me once and I nearly forgot who I was for a few minutes. I don't let her get that close any more. I have two human friends in Armouthe who know I have business here but I have not miaowed a word of what I've seen and heard to them. Oh no."

Queen Esme shivered. Spies did unpleasant work. She wished she didn't have to know. brushed her robes down. Damn this cat. Her thoughts were scattering . The underside of her desk was definitely in need of a clean. The chatelaine had been sorely bereft following the death and funeral of King Erlian and had not yet composed herself to see to the inner apartment of the monarch. Esme and her inner circle of advisors had been sifting through things. It was about time for some further discipline. 

She composed herself and pulled a nearby bellcord. Instantly, a door on the far end of the room swung ajar and a figure slipped in and padded softly down the room. It was a slight young man in a brown tunic and embroidered tabard with grey-green sleeves and hose and brown calf length boots. He bowed slightly as he came to attention ten feet away. He carried a slate and a fine white pencil, poised for action.

"Oh yes Fram, please inform Loremaster Lombard and Lord Cor that I need them to attend me here at the third bell after nooning. This can't wait. There is a change of plan. I was to see the chatelaine of Anvard about the autumn feast, but he'll have to wait till some other time. I can't put off the ambassador of Terebinthia and his trade delegation that I am to see over luncheon, but I am distracted and I need support." 

She took a breath, thinking. The pencil flew, scratching on the slate rapidly. 

"Send for my first cousin Prince Ronin. I don't care where he is or what he's doing. I'll need him in the smaller state reception room by the first bell. I'll need his help with this. Ronin's got a good manner with foreign dignitaries. They prefer a man.” 

“Remind him to try hard for, let's see clearing out half the olive oil warehouse stocks and as little of the surplus lumber as possible and a moderate consignment of blank bound books in exchange for as much of the Terebinthian wine and healing herbs and fabrics they trade in as possible. There.”  
She thought a little more and said with a laugh, “Oh, and it's probably time to raise their hopes of providing a consort to the unwed monarch of this country". 

The pencil was still scratching.

"Now, something urgent. I need Grand Spymaster Raven Greyfeather here on the double. Send the entire flock of messenger birds to find her if you must. I'm opening the window so she can come straight in. That's all I can think of right now. Off you go."

She had less than an hour before the luncheon and needed to breathe and think. She closed here eyes. "Oh Aslan, give me courage and strength" she intoned under her breath again, then opened her eyes and gazed full upon the lion keystone.

"Master cat!" 

There was no answer. 

"Damn that cat", she thought, "is he hoaxing me or has he just decided to absent himself considerately while I take a breath? Or is he just an arrogant inconsiderate self promoter who just wanted an audience with the Queen?" 

Either way she needed Greyfeather here to explain some things. She bent over the desk to straighten her papers and make sure her seals had been affixed well. She put them all into a leather folder marked ERA, sighed and then stood waiting, looking down the firth. She relished this moment of peace and wondered how she would comport herself in this next encounter. 

But after fifteen seconds, a fierce caterwauling, a screeching and a thumping sound broke out from behind the curtains, as a tumbling mass of fur and claws and tails hurtled across the room, bumping into furniture, knocking a lampstand and rucking the rug. 

Doors burst open from 3 directions, servants came running, one blur of brown fur streaked up a curtain, another larger blur jumped up and clawed it down, and a huge raven flew in at the window and alighted on the back of the couch, taking in the scene momentarily before diving into the fray. 

Moments later the cat crouched panting heavily, it's claws and body pinning another body to the floor, it's jaws around the back of an animal's neck. The Raven stood, quivering slightly, her blue-white eyes fixed beadily on the face of the captive, one claw on its neck. 

The captive squirmed a little, chest heaving, but it had stopped struggling, almost like it had been stuck by a pin. 

After the initial shock, everyone gathered around closer. One of the courtiers pulled a dagger from his boot and held it to the creature's belly. Neither Tobermory nor Greyfeather relaxed their hold. 

Someone put down Esme after they realised that it had not been her under attack, apologising profusely. 

Tobermory had accosted what looked like a very large rat and Greyfeather it seemed had just managed to get it hypnotised.

Shaken and a little sickened, the humans edged even closer, peering down. The red eyes of the rat bulged and its sharp yellow teeth protruded, its face flecked with blood. 

"Who are you?" rasped the Raven out of the side of her murderous beak, poised in a deadly stance over the rat's throat. "You will answer me... who are you?"

There was a pause then the rat spoke in a horrible grey squeaking voice spoke. "I am of the chosen". 

"What have you been chosen to do?" 

"What have I not been chosen to do?", the rat wheazed out a laugh, its tail wriggling like an earthworm.

"Answer me!" The Raven was not going to lose control.

"To... to... to mark the path." Twitch.

"The path to where and for whom?"

"The path to the... the... tree, for... for... she who comes" Twitch.

"Which tree?

"The Tree of Protection in Narnia."

"Who needs this path?"

"We call her The White Lady"

"Why does she need to get to the Tree?"

"To make it shut up!" Twitch twitch twitch.

"The White Lady... who is she?", growled Tobermory, his eyes tightly closed.

The rat hesitated, panting now and tried not to speak, but rasped out against its own will, "She is the s-s-sealer of lips... the b-b-b-inder of l-l-legs... the frrrreezer of hearts. She brings freedom to the hated and despised, those from the far north, from the deep places, from the far wastes... those considered vermin."

"What is this White Lady's name and where is she?" 

"I cannot say!" shrieked the rat.

"Tell me!"

...

"Tell me!"

...

"Her name is... J-J-J-". 

The rat twitched, twitched again and a moment later was still and cold. 

It had turned to stone.


	6. An Uncomfortable Meeting - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tobermory and Esme recover. Greyfeather is out of sorts. The central Spy Network of Archenland confers. More questions need answering.

Chapter 5: An Uncomfortable Meeting - Part 1 

Doctor Petronius was duly summoned. 

This stout old satyr with brindled fleece and hair trotted in carrying his medicine bag and examined both Tobermory and the rat carefully. Poor Tobermory’s tongue was almost frozen to the petrified flesh. He had to have warm water trickled around his mouth in order to help him remove his tongue and extract his teeth and palette from the mouthful of petrified fur, skin and flesh. 

The poor feline had suffered what you know very well after you have eaten an ice treat too quickly and he had to be gathered up and have warm towels wrapped around his head and be given warm broth to restore himself. His head swam and he felt nauseous, but he held back as much as possible. He knew that cat vomit on the Queen’s rug would be something he would never live down, so he held on, breathing steadily and closed his eyes letting the Queen’s staff look after him.

Once this was proceeding satisfactorily, the surgeon next squatted down on his haunches to examine the rat further, which had been left exactly where it was. It looked like intricately detailed dark jade and it was cold just like marble. 

“Dear me” he tut-tutted to himself and stroked the surface of the stone rat with interested fingers. There was really nothing to indicate that it was anything other than a cleverly executed carving, except that it was far too perfect in every detail of hair, claw and scale to be possible. This was clearly the work of some deadly unknown magic. 

Even the whiskers were stone and along with some of the fine hairs were splintering into pieces with the slightest disturbance. 

A shiver went through Dr Petronius as he stood up and for a moment his vision went black and he leaned heavily on a nearby courtier, gasping and clutching with tense white fingers. “B b b b but if th th th this c c c c can happen to one c c c c creature, h h h h h h how many others are there?” he asked to the room in general?” It was a question no one could answer but everyone looked a little panicked.

Esme’s inner apartments were now in a state of chaos. Fauns, humans and talking beasts and birds were coming and going, murmuring and exclaiming, some with horror and anxiety, others with annoyance and impatience. 

Even a few of the messenger birds had poked their heads into the open window, taken a look and were now flying off, telling all and sundry Aslan knew what! Esme could hear the blackbirds twittering their hysterical concerns widely already and a few of the doves who’d poked their heads in beginning to coo and boom what they had seen with the innuendo that only doves can manage.  


“This is getting out of hand. It has to stop! Trade delegation be damned, we need to get to the bottom of this sorcery and conspiracy before it’s too late.” Esme said out loud. She had been looking a little stunned but now began issuing instruction to her servants. 

She stood up fully on her desk and called, “Attend to me!” and clapped her hands loudly for silence. 

“Those pesky messenger birds must be brought back here at once. Every one! They will be silenced. Who can go after them? 

She looked meaningfully at Greyfeather, but Greyfeather had retreated into herself and was sitting with closed eyes and feathers ruffled. It was then that a large white and tawny barn owl spoke. She had heard the commotion and swung in through the window on silent wings and had been sitting quietly observing the activity with wide eyes. “Too much, too little, too early, too late it seems. Certainly your Majesty.” She bobbed and swivelled her head and looked over her shoulder at Esme. “I will call the birds in… if it please your majesty… for what it is worth”, she added. 

“They must come back here at once and swear to keep their twittering beaks shut, otherwise they will be charged with treason!” Esme shouted, again loosing her cool as a cucumber. 

Esme forced herself to breathe for a few moments to gather her thoughts further. 

“We meet in the full Council room in two hours,” she called. “Fram, all other appointments in my schedule are cancelled. All members of the privy council or their proxies must attend. Greyfeather! The local seniors in the spy network will be meeting and making a full report before the full council meeting. Ronin, I want the Terebinthian, Narnian and Calormene embassies contacted at once, and their ambassadors and secretaries summoned to join us after the mid-afternoon bell. Luncheon will have to wait!”

Spymaster Greyfeather looked put out by the affair. She had hopped up onto the back of the settee and ruffled her feathers, staring beadily into the mid-distance, ruminating; silent. The scattering of flat grey feathers across her body amongst the normal glossy beetle black could now be seen in the even light which was streaming in through the window; the reason for her name becoming obvious. 

Esme cast her eyes around the room, making sure that everyone was on to their tasks. She looked at the Raven again and this time noticed her looking darkly at Tobermory, her feathers still ruffled. She narrowed her eyes and then noticed Tobermory looking helplessly at her and she realised that he was seeking some protection from the Spymaster.

“Greyfeather! I thank you for your assistance just now, but you simply must snap out of your bad mood! I want you to confer with your staff including the cat that just saved us from possible worse disaster. I want answers. My Uncle Lord Idris and Loremaster Lombard will be joining you. See to it that you behave yourself.”

After about one hour of recovery, Tobermory Thincoat (or Cloudstreak as we might like to remember him), feeling wary, was escorted by Fram out of the inner apartment and across an anteroom, into a corridor and past several doorways into a small bare audience chamber. There was a small window that presently had its shutters open. The room had no hangings. A heavy oak door was held ajar by a young fire-fleeced satyr in a brown tunic, his cool blue eyes giving nothing away, his glance aloof. Three lamps had to be lit to provide enough light for writing. Otherwise, no doubt, the interview that was to come could have been conducted in complete darkness. There were to be no outside witnesses. 

Master Lombard, a man of middle height and middle years with normally laughing eyes, a ruddy complexion and a long pointy beard flecked with grey had just taken his seat and was toying with paper and a pen, looking flustered. His assistant was busy filling quills with brown ink at a table in the corner, getting ready for the meeting to begin, her own eyes darting with anxiety. Another courtier stalked in looking grave, his shoulder adorned by the form of the great Raven who clutched the padded shoulders of his tabard, wordlessly, looking grim and withdrawn still. She still had not spoken directly to Tobermory nor to anyone and thankfully was now avoiding his gaze too.

Three high stools with leather padding, that stood on a level with the table were already in place, one on the left, one at the far end, one on the right, with ordinary backed chairs stationed around the table, about 10 in total. Tobermory was directed to the stool on the left, next to Master Lombard. He leapt up with some effort after his recent ordeal and sat low, his tail wrapped around his paws, trembling slightly. His eyes just open a slit. Spymaster Raven Greyfeather was directed to perch on the one on padded stool at the far end. She did not move from the courtier's shoulder at once, and looked at her escort sidelong in the way that birds look at prey, seeming to dare him to order her off. The courtier flicked his gaze quickly at the eye so close to his own, went dull eyed for a moment before the Raven hopped down. Tobermory's eyes widened with dismay. What did she think she was doing trying the Eye of Tash on a courtier? Was it some kind of reminder? Or a warning, or just trying to test his responses? Tobermory would certainly be telling his story in the full as much as time allowed and would be avoiding Greyfeather's gaze at all costs. That close encounter over the rat had been unnerving and he had studiously kept his eyes tightly shut throughout. 

The Queen Mother's cousin, Lord Idris, the Archen Chief Negotiator and Inquisitor stalked into the room hurriedly and took his seat at the head of the table. He looked tense and did not speak.

Once he was settled, three humans whom Tobermory was sure he had met before in his work also sidled into the room, the second and third completely breathless. The first, swathed from head to toe in a hooded robe of brown homespun, which he removed once in the room, was a strikingly handsome blonde young man. He was in a state of considerable dishevelment, hair tousled, skin flushed, sleep still in his eyes, his body odour strong, some reddish marks just in evidence on his neck. His name was Caddoc. In this part of Archenland he had a reputation for being very popular and affectionate; the recipient of much pillow talk, so in spy circles was highly valued. 

Tobermory had tried to see him only a few days before but had been unable to find him. But someone else obviously had in a hurry. Caddoc smirked slightly and winked at Master Lombard before schooling his features to a neutral bored expression. The other two were a middle aged human couple, Mother and Father Moss. They were apple cheeked keepers of a popular wayside inn from the far western end of Armouthe, about ten miles away. They were both flushed and breathless. Evidently they had ridden hard as soon as a messenger bird had reached them. They smelled of horse, hops and fermenting barley. They took seats on either side of Greyfeather.

Tobermory could see that the third seat for a talking beast or bird was vacant and wondered who it could be. Moments later he heard the scratch and clatter of claws on the stone floor and then the strong musky smell of the creature assaulted him as it slithered into the room. A thickset dark brown and black shape with shaggy fur clambered up onto the stool and sat upright, dark eyes looking down a long snout. He had also seen her before but he had to fight his natural instincts and not squall. It was Quickhatch the wolverine. 

“You called for me, Lord Idris?” she rasped in an undertone. Her lips curled superciliously to reveal a mouthful of fanged jagged teeth. Idris stared back, expressionless.

The courtiers then withdrew clicking the door shut firmly behind them. The satyr trotted smartly to the shutters and closed them firmly before he also sat down to the left of Lord Idris. They heard the sound of several sentries shuffling into position outside the door and the sound of a key being turned into the lock and then being withdrawn.

The cold white-washed room was in silence. Lord Idris looked down the table coldly at each of them in turn, his nostrils flaring. Momentarily he held a pocket handkerchief drenched in lavender to his nose and took a deep breath.

“This meeting is of the utmost urgency”, he said is a deep sonorous voice. “You are required to give your reports with the greatest efficiency and accuracy. The Queen was spied upon by an enemy in her chambers this very morn. It was largely prevented from carrying out its diabolical purposes, whatever they were, by Master Tobermory here. We must take this as a threat not just on her life, but on the security of this castle and the wider realm. We must identify how long this security breach may have been going on and what you each know of wider events that may impinge this matter.”

He paused considering a moment, looking uncomfortable, his jaw working, then in a higher harsher voice he bawled out, “And why, if our spy network is so effective and widespread as you have so often reassured us Spymaster Greyfeather, it was possible for you to not have informed the Queen or myself of any concerns before now?!”

Tobermory flicked his eyes down the table momentarily. Spymaster Raven Greyfeather was still hunched with puffed feathers. She was not looking ready to speak yet. He then looked to his right across Lord Idris’s nose and was in time to see Quickhatch hide a pleased look. Something was going on here and whatever it was, it was bound to get interesting.


	7. The Gryphon of Anvard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The resident Gryphon of Anvard awakes in his tower very early. The happy dreams are broken by the most dramatic moments of his life as he finds himself charged with rescuing three children and taking them further away from his sworn duties, to deliver them to a haven of safety.

Chapter 6: The Gryphon of Anvard

It had been a dark moonless night, a night good for sleeping. 

Riordan growled and trilled softly to himself, tucking his head deeper under his wing, trying to make sleep last just a little longer. Vague sliding shapes and the warm comforting drowsiness of dreams still beckoned and he luxuriated in slumber on his bed of deep straw and leaves. He had flown the upper reaches of the Winding Arrow only the day before, helping scout for the locations of the great elk, in time for the autumn hunt season. He had needed to sleep deeply.

Lord Cor and the Terebinthian Ambassador were expected in only a week and they were hoping to impress the Ambassador and his delegation sufficiently to gain a huge trade concession by raising Terebinthian ambitions of providing a Prince Consort to Archenland. 

“Terebinthia in its sheltered position in the Bight of Calormen is caught in a warm current which results in balmy conditions all year round and is thus the centre of sea trade in the region. Their Royal Family is rich. But their sandy beaches, tamarisk groves, warm laurel forests filled with flowering trees, singing birds, palaces, carvings and carpets are really only on a small isle, the truth be told and cannot compare to the sweeping grandeur of the Archen Mountains with their boundless forest lands, wild and talking beasts, sacred places and still unknown tracts of wilderness. On the other hand, Archenland is rich in many things but its agrarian subsistence economy is…” the litany drifted off to another part of his mind and stayed there, the voice of the Chatelaine of Anvard just a distant echo. 

Riordan’s dream state mind was much more occupied with other grander concerns such as guarding the royal treasure hoard, rescuing young fauns and dryads, or flying mysterious errands of heroic importance for Queen Esme and later being lauded in court at Armouthe. Like all his kind he was proud and more than a trifle vain. His sleeping dreams reflected his waking fancies.

A fox barked, its call carried on the pre-dawn late summer breeze which was just beginning to stir the valley below Anvard and rise up through the trees. Riordan's ears twitched. A meadow pipit perched on a nearby turret made its first tentative sounds for the day and a cuckoo, heedless of season began to declare itself from the orchard. The dawn chorus would soon be in full swing. The gully breeze wafted through the grate in the turret window in soft tendrils and brought with it a hint of a complex of strange vague odours. It was not the smell of the fox.

The nostrils in Riordan's cere flared and the tip of his tail flicked restively. Dreams still beckoned. The crowds were cheering and flapping their wings or rearing up in salute. He pushed his head further under his wing to soak up the adulation. But the odd odours intensified. He snorted and in a single motion, was on his feet, hackles bristling, wing feathers rustling, ears rigidly upright. He stared anxiously into the grey darkness through the grated window. Dreams were forgotten.

He slithered around on himself, slipped quickly up the short stair and onto the turret roof. He reared up, front claws onto the battlement, gazing south-west, breathing in deeply, panting slightly. A few stars glittered. Alambil was on the western horizon, sinking down over Telmar; Zardeenah not far behind and further South, both about to be swathed in cloud. 

Moments later, Riordan was crouching on the tower battlement fully, and then cast himself off, sinking silently into the gloom, gliding over the soft grey mass of the main keep, over the kennels and stables, over the dimly seen grassy terrace, the huge walled kitchen garden and the expansive sweeping orchard. An owl called softly. Further east across the saddle, Anvard Village hugged the slopes of the next rise but there were no lights. All were still asleep. Behind him the castle walls gleamed slightly in the last starlight. A few more birds began to make themselves heard, but the full chorus was some time away yet. 

Riordan turned and glided west sniffing the rising gully air again, searching for the complicated elusive scents again. It brought to mind all sorts of unpleasant things. If you had smelled them you might have thought of charcoal, baked resin, blood and bone meal, rancid fat, or rot. Smells of death. He scented them again. His crest feathers erected in anxiety. Where were they coming from?

Riordan turned his head and looked under his wings, left and right, seeking for the source, pivoting on his wings with careful adjustment in his wings and tail. At that moment the postern gate of the castle courtyard creaked open and there was just enough light to see the night guard stepping outside to relieve himself against the laurel shrubbery. 

Riordan grumbled to himself. “What is the fool doing, couldn’t he have used a jar inside? What’s he doing opening the gate now? There are strange smells about.” 

The guard took his time. “He must have been on guard a long time,” he reflected. 

Then his thoughts ran to “They’re a rum lot these sons of Adam, all the power and responsibility in the world but no sense of smell… or decorum”. 

Then, just as the man was about to turn back to the gate, a loping figure leapt out of the shadows full upon the man and knocked him down. His first cry stifled by his throat being bitten. Silently, more vague dark figures of many sizes began to flood from around the west wall and slip inside.

Riordan was in shock. He whirled and swooped. There was no time to lose. He must call the alarm! Riordan flapped his wings hard and raced to get across the gateyard and to warn the castle staff and resident guard, before it was too late. The chatelaine was away in Armouthe but there were only a few less soldiers on hand than usual. He screeched loudly and flung himself over the gate arch and zoomed across the dim chasm towards the main keep. The strange smells were strong now and the mass of figures was converging silently on the several doors into the castle.

With no time to consider, he dropped shrieking onto one of the loping figures that was closest, trying to rake it with his claws. A man's grey haired face with protruding jaws and a mess of jagged teeth flicked its cold-eyed gaze up at Riordan in the dimness. A mace swung through the air, narrowly missing his front claws and striking a glancing blow against Riordan's abdomen, tearing a swathe of downy feathers and skin. He shrieked with pain.

“By the Lion's Mane, surely others must awaken now!” Riordan thought desperately as he beat his wings down hard and surged urgently upward. But he found to his further distress that his leg jesses had been grasped. A dwarf or sprite had jumped off someone and was trying to weigh Riordan down. Riordan flicked his claws hard, tipping the creature upwards into their grasp and curled them in hard. He felt sharp teeth pierce the flesh of his claws as he battled upwards in the air and let go his tormentor, who fell with a piercing cry. Riordan finally gained some height and flew at the nearest windows he could find, batting with his claws and wings. "Invaders!" he cried.

Riordan slithered his way across the walls, crying out more, flapping and clawing at buttresses and crenulations. His left flank throbbed and he knew he was lucky to be alive. Whether he could stay that way remained to be seen. Lamps and shadowy frightened faces appeared in windows as the mob below began to rattle the doors. A klaxon rang out. Someone was beating on a bell repeatedly with a hammer now. 

In the dim light, Riordan thought he could see a great hulking man with a bull's head beginning to shoulder the great oaken door into the main Keep. Riordan knew it was heavily barred. He was being battled by three guards but they were tired after their long vigil and stumbled. They were quickly overwhelmed when two other bull headed men galloped up to join their fellow and the guards were pushed aside like skittles. Together the bullish men hurled their solid bulks at the Keep door, making hollow booms but not making a dent. Large rats began to swarm in at the main gate and ran helter-skelter looking for ankles to bite. Some began to climb walls looking for footholds and a purchase to the roofed walkway on the southern walls. 

At the same time a cluster of grim figures in hooded cassocks and two of the wolfish looking men headed for the door of the Great Hall. There, they drew up and one of the hooded women trickled a few handfuls of dust about the door and drew arcane symbols on the door. A flame appeared from somewhere and within moments a blue fire began to lick the door. 

This small group of the invaders began to chant in terrible voices and then hurled something into the blue flames. There was a sonic "boom" and they were thrown backwards, staggering and falling over. One of the wolfmen was thrown head over heels, his arm and neck broken. He lay there in a heap, twitching for a while and then stilled. 

His fate was ignored. The door to the Great Hall of Anvard lay in splinters. The wolf men loped and the withered women in hooded cassocks hobbled up the steps, pushed aside the remaining door and disappeared inside. 

By this time, a large mixed group of dishevelled archers had appeared on the battlements and parapet walk and began shooting in earnest, although in the dim but growing light it was hard to see their targets. Each bullheaded man got several arrows in their shoulders which made them bellow and numerous of the rats were shot dead quickly. A few of the hags were wounded badly, and lay groaning and screaming, but soon the archers were baffled and very frightened. Their arrows seemed to go through some figures completely without harm and they were being picked up by some others and stuck into quivers for later or shot back. 

In the meantime, Riordan had half flown, half scrambled up onto one of the parapets and lay there panting desperately, his side aching and stinging. But so far there was only a little blood as far as he could tell. Three archers near him were loosing arrow after arrow and looked like they would soon run out. He needed to get inside and have his wounds dressed.

The rabble of monsters, some stuck now with arrows crossed the courtyard and began the process all over again with the door to the main keep. This proved a harder task and the door did not give way completely. 

Once they had recovered from the second blast, the minotaurs jumped back to the weakened door and began shouldering it again. At that point, several pots of hot water were tipped over the parapet onto those below, there not having been time to heat oil for the purpose. Several figures yelped and bawled but the water had lost heat on the way down and they still held on, continuing to shoulder the door. Spears abruptly protruded outwards through the cracks and stabbed into the minotaurs who bellowed but instead of backing away like the wolfmen, hags and others had, they merely reached and grasped and wrenched the spears back out from their owners’ hands and turned them back on their owners through the gaps. 

Riordan lay on the edge of the parapet panting heavily, getting his breath back, and watching the events below with horror. The wolfman who had been twitching and then apparently died with a broken neck, began to move around again, then straightened out his own neck with an audible crunch, got up, and loped in after his companions into the Great Hall. Across the main yard, the door to the kitchens and mess hall for the men at arms was breached quickly by a hoard of shimmering burning efreets, freezing spectres, shadowy incubuses, and galumphing orknies. Sleepy and frightened cooks and scullery servants tried to defend themselves with pokers, cleavers and kitchen knives but they were of little use. The walrus-like orknies used force of mass and inertia to overwhelm and crush, whilst the efreets and spectres used the fire and ice of their respective natures to burn and freeze the defenders. They could not be touched. The incubuses went about rampantly assaulting all that were left, taking their time, treasuring the terror, pain and horror they were inflicting. 

Riordan was in pain but managed to flounder his way panting along the parapet and into the doors to the west tower, but it was at the head of the stairs that he heard screams and shrieks from below. He knew it was already too late. With the heart of a lion and the sharp bladelike mind of an eagle, Riordan knew he had to make a fast decision but he was still beset with doubt. “Aslan, let it be the right one!”, he moaned. 

But at that moment, two soldiers came running up the stairs, pulling three children and two servant women with them. They slammed the doors and tried to find something to wedge and bar them with. The doors were designed to be defended from the inside, not the outside. The far door at the other end of the parapet was also flung open and more soldiers, courtiers and family of the chatelaine who had got upstairs, raced onto the parapet escaping from unspeakable horrors. Some carried bed sheets with them. Some might escape, but their fates did not look promising. It would only be a matter of time. 

"Oh, by the Lion, a winged creature! Is that you Riordan? Please, I beg you, can you please help my children escape? You must take them to safety!" Lady Delina’s night-chignon was undone, her dark hair tumbled about her shoulders, her breath gasping, her eyes wide with panic. She was distraught, but she had thought something through. "If the town is still safe, they might be looked after by my parents, but I fear these monsters will go there too! You must take them further." 

" Lady, I must warn Armouthe as soon as I am able, but I can’t take your children that far." 

"The Talking Swifts have already left!" interjected one of the soldiers, a local man called Trystan, whose parents were weavers in Anvard Village. "They had just begun their dawn hunt and they saw everything, thanks to you. They've gone to tell the eagles, they'll be able to get to Armouthe quickly.”  
“But it will be at least three days before they can get a relief army here”, thought Riordan to himself but he didn’t dare speak the even darker thoughts that came to him. 

At that moment two large rats were putting their paws and noses over the edge of the parapet having managed to claw their way upwards. The children went rigid with terror. The soldiers leapt at them. One of the rats hissed and chattered, mouthing threats and clambering up fully onto the parapet, launched itself at one of the soldiers, landing on his shoulder . He managed to dislodge it with his gauntlet whilst his fellow dispatched it. The other was pushed off with swords and plummeted, squeaking abominably on the way down. But there were at least ten others still on the way up. 

Delina spoke again. “Please Riordan, you are my only hope. There are no other winged creatures in the castle. Please, take my children to Fernwood and the sacred wells. If anyone can protect them it is the centaurs”. 

“But what about you? And the other servants here? How will you defend yourselves?” Riordan gasped, looking Delina's brave and terrified face in the eye. Her three children were clutching uncertainly at her skirts. Sleep still in their eyes, only the oldest, who was about ten, seemed to catch the drift of the conversation, and she stared at her mother terrified. The two little ones, twins, were howling miserably. 

"As we must” she said heavily. “I can wield a sword if I need to". 

"No Mamma, you must come!”  
Delina hastily got down on bended knee, looking her daughter full in the face and kissed her forehead.  
“I cannot come too my love, Sir Riordan cannot take me as well. I will help fight off the monsters and then I will come and get you. You must fly from here as far as he can take you. Come now…”

“Can you manage all three?”, she added in a whispered aside. 

"I will have to" he said. “But I beg you, I must have some harness for these children to cling to, else I may lose them off my back within minutes.” 

Delina and some others immediately began ripping up bedsheets and fashioned a crude harness around Riordan, knotting it skillfully around his body and constructing a little padding and some side strips for the eldest child to cling to and for the youngest ones to be tied to.

Other members of the household were busy tying bedsheets together and adding lengths of rope to help get themselves down to the ground on the outer perimeter and to make a run for the town. But if the castle and main keep were not safe…

The terrified children screamed and kicked but Riordan bravely stood his ground on the upper edge of the parapet, as the children were settled onto his back and tied to the harness. With a final urgent kiss, Lady Delina backed away and grasped a sword just as one of the doors burst open with a terrifying crackle. 

There was no time to lose. Riordan launched himself off the parapet and without looking back left the desperate defenders of Anvard behind, three heavy children clutching fearfully and painfully to his neck hackles and ruff. He dropped quickly and brushed the tops of nearby trees before with effort managing to flap his way across the orchard, groves and fields, the small town that served and supported Anvard quickly looming closer. The sun was nearly up and the light revealed further terrors in that direction too. Riordan quickly swerved, hiding these visions from the already traumatised children. There was no haven for them there.

Riordan called to the three children, "Never fear, I will take you to safety now", and with that he flapped his wings hard, gathered what height he could and plunged off over the rocky heights and deep valleys of Archenland, heading toward Mount Pire, the trembling children silenced by the drama, the terror and the glory of the landscape that opened up below them. He realised that they had probably never seen the world from this height or speed before. “They’re a rum lot these little wingless two-foot people, and no mistake”, he thought to himself. 

Riordan knew that Fernwood lay in a deep valley and the journey would take well over an hour with the children weighing him down. 

He was glad the little ones had been tied. He dared not stop to rest. He could feel his flank smarting where he had been bruised and scraped with the mace and he knew that once he had rested, this would stiffen and make it hard to fly. He also was in some doubt about whether he would be able to take off again should he land for a rest. Either he landed on a precipice which might terrify them or he just had to keep flying. 

Yes, there was only one thing for it. To keep flying until he got them to safety. 

He felt torn. The blessed wells of Fernwood behind their stockade of charms and dreams were on the other side of Mount Pire; getting further from Armouthe than ever. 

But he could not betray the charge by Lady Delina to deliver her children to safety, as she herself was unlikely to survive, so it took on extreme imperatives. Nevertheless, Riordan was sworn to the Royal Families first and he felt torn. 

As his wing beats settled into a steady rhythm and the children settled, Riordan mulled over the options. In the end he decided there was only one thing to do. Once he got the children to Fernwood and got his wound dressed, he needed to fly helter-skelter to Narnia. It was his sworn duty.

By the Lion, Narnia was needed anyway, so it might as well be him that did the telling of the awful truth. It was at that moment he realised that in a way he was living his vain dream from the early morning and that in his way, Aslan always brought what people wished for.


	8. Fernwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riordan delivers the children safely to the care of the centaurs and continues his journey.

The three traumatised children were still all on Riordan's back as he glided down the deep valley on the far side of Mount Pire. Their whimpers had died away in their exhaustion as the elder one had done her best to comfort and reassure the younger twins. Sparse pine woods on the rocky slopes gave way to larch and spruce, aspen and willow before gradually the dense forests of oak, beech, birch and linden spread below them. Interspersed, Riordan could see glades of well tended apple, pear, quince, medlar, currant, hawthorn, mulberry, grape, and fields of millet and corn. There were already a few centaurs out in the fields, reaping millet or pulling ploughs or hoeing rows of corn.

If Riordan had wondered where to take the children first, he stopped wondering rapidly. A little to the right on the northern side of the valley, he could clearly see several steep roofed gables ahead, their upswept peaks rising nearly to the tops of the surrounding trees. Around and about rose the lacy fronds of tall tree ferns, their majestic forms dwarfed by huge beech trees with their shapely grey boughs and trusses of shining foliage. 

As he veered in this direction however, he detected a shimmering and a disorientation that was more than visual. His dream visions from early that morning flooded chaotically through his mind again and the children gasped and whimpered. Before he knew what was happening, he found himself caught in a thermal up-draught which swept him up and aside. The extra weight and his smarting flanks made this difficult to manoeuvre but with some effort, he glided away. Looking sidewise, Riordan could see that this entire corner of the valley was shrouded by a slightly shimmering, dome, that evidently protected the area.   
He decided to land in a field near a grove of sprawling elderberries bushes, close by a brook, probably about half a mile from the centre of the dome. 

So with his gold and copper wings flashing in the sun, Riordan glided down and with a final flurry of upswept wings, he settled onto the ground, panting. 

At this moment, the two youngest children who had fallen asleep with exhaustion woke up and began to struggle to get off his back. The elder child scrambled off Riordan and began talking to the younger ones offering what comfort she could, as she tried to untie some of the knots. 

All three were very nervous but were glad to be back on solid ground again. 

By this time Riordan had stretched out fully, trembling as he felt both exhaustion and the simple relief that he had got the children to safety. He did wonder anxiously when someone would show themselves. 

But he needn't have worried. Moments later the ground was throbbing with thundering hooves as a trio of centaurs veered around the grove of trees. The three children looked up in alarm and clung on to Riordan. One was a handsome black haired centaur with white socks, ruddy skin and a clipped beard. The other two were women, as alike as two peas. Their black hair was streaming in the wind and their faces showed great concern and care as they slowed to a halt.

“What goes forward oh winged one? We could see your headlong flight some minutes ago.” said one of the female centaurs. “Long has it been since one of your kind has come to Fernwood”.  
Riordan was still breathless and was about to answer but her sister spoke first.

“Methinks there is an urgent matter afoot, judging by your haste and bearing so strange a burden?” the other said, as she looked down kindly on the three children and then knelt horse fashion so she could see into the children’s faces and not tower over them so much. “What brings you here children?”

The eldest child looked up at the centaur woman with troubled eyes and said “Our mother sent us here to be safe”, and then burst into a flood of silent tears, her lips trembling. 

Riordan found some breath and panted, “Anvard has been invaded… I brought these children here at their mother’s bidding… Her name is Lady Delina... the wife of the Steward of Anvard. These are their children. Can you please care for them until… until she comes to claim them when she can… I fear it may have been her last wish.”

All three looked appalled and exchanged worried looks. “Hush, enough, Master Gryphon” said one of the centaur women gently. The two women beckoned to the three children, “We will look after you” said the other. “Yes, and by and by, we will make sure your mother and father are returned to you. You are safe here.”

The children were all given a little water from the brook to drink before one of the centaur women said: “Shall you come with us for some soup, a warm bath and a nice sleep?” The elder one nodded numbly. In a few moments the three girls were gathered up into the women’s arms, they bid Riordan farewell and they walked gently away out of sight. 

By this time, the centaur man had also knelt and gently examined Riordan’s gashed flank.

“What are your plans from here Master Gryphon?” he asked.

“I must get to Cair Paravel in Narnia as fast as I can to alert King Dale and the Narnian forces of defence. Archenland will need help with this I deem.”

“Then you shall need swift healing indeed” the centaur intoned. He stood up and taking a horn slung over his back blew a series of throaty vocal blasts upon it. There were words in the call but Riordan couldn’t quite catch them. He stayed with Riordan and brought him water from the brook which Riordan drank thirstily, bird fashion, one mouthful at a time tipping his head back. At the same time, the centaur began feeling for the gryphon’s wing, breast and flank muscles and began a gentle but firm massage, helping to ease the knots and tension away. After about twenty minutes the gryphon was beginning to feel like he might be able to move again but he was still very tired. His heart rate had just started to slow a little.

Then another centaur arrived, a rich chestnut with a long flowing beard, this one bearing a pot of broth and a tub of salve. The two centaurs conferred briefly and the first knelt down again and began to apply the salve to Riordan’s flank. Within a short while numbness had spread along the wound area and he felt the tension ease from his body further. 

Whilst this took place, they conferred about the best route to take and the quickest way to the main Archen Valley.

“Not too much and not anywhere else” the chestnut centaur warned. “There will be no point in making your wing muscles numb. If you need to fly to Narnia you need to be well coordinated. But at least most of the journey will be downwards. That will be a blessing.” 

The two centaurs then counselled Riordan to drink some meat broth before leaving; light and easily digested, to sustain him on the rest of his journey. They warned him to take it slowly, but he bent his head and taking large beaks-ful, he tilted his head and let the broth run down his throat. He pecked at the chunks of soft meat and gobbled them. Before long the pot was empty and Riordan’s limbs had stopped quivering. He wanted to curl up and go to sleep again but knew this was not possible. Duty beckoned.

With a weary sigh, he spoke to the centaur men about how he could find some where for safe take-off. They led him slowly and carefully up one side of the valley, and along a gentle path that gradually steepened until they doubled back and he was able to jump from a ledge about twenty wingspans from the valley floor. 

Riordan flapped hard and headed in a North East direction to clear the next ridge and he was gone.


	9. The Messenger Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The residents of Lindenlea Farm receive formal news from the King of Narnia and consider their options.

Chapter 7: The Messenger Bird

Early the next morning at Lindenlea Farm was much like any other. Albanac rose at dawn, rubbed his eyes, used the outdoor privy, tossed in some sawdust and fed the capercaillies. He then let out a yodelling call to Rastus that sounded like "Hupsidaisy-mashel-bewaitin-shortly-oh!" to let the worthy ibex buck know that the house was stirring and could give his morning report when he was ready. He returned inside, washed his hands and face with soap root in cold water from the ewer and set about making sure that there was enough soaked grain, fruit and milk to go round for breakfast. 

By this time Angharad had stirred herself and was blowing up some coals in the stove for a cup of mint tea before facing a new day. She called to Gwyn, who groaned and pulled the covers up over himself and buried his head. Like all young people his age, he seemed to need just a little more sleep than he had even two years before. 

Gwyn had not slept in with his parents after all. Nor had Clive slept in the main room. After a short talk with his parents in their room, he had half carried Clive up the ladder to sleep with him in the loft. They had both felt better for it, although the summer evening was warm.

Clive on the other hand was now in a hurry to get down and outside and he barked out to Albanac that if his good-for-nothing son couldn't bestir himself, perhaps the man of the household could understand the need for a short dignified walk in the garden before breakfast. 

So Albanac cheerfully climbed the short ladder and helped Clive down, who then huffed and puffed his way quickly out the side door through the woodshed and made himself scarce for a few minutes.  


Shortly thereafter, Rastus led the ten milking goats up to the farm house yard and a nice pile of their favourite browse. He went for his morning mash and the milking goats waited patiently in line to be milked. By this time Gwyn had tumbled down from the loft, washed his hands and joined his parents in sitting on stools and milking the goats. 

The day proceeded more or less as normal. No messenger birds showed themselves. There was weeding to be done and some fresh fodder to be cut for the goats. They had to go searching for a capercaillie who appeared to have made an escape and a new nest away from the coop after the storm and they needed some of the eggs. Clive had a good nose and before long he had located a very full nest under the low sweeping branches of a young hemlock tree. They gathered all but four much to her consternation, then gathered her up with her remaining eggs. With her complaining all the way, she was taken back to the coop and settled her into a new nest with her warm eggs. 

Gwyn also helped Albanac to saw some fallen green timber from the main trunk of an elm tree that had succumbed to the storm several days earlier, after paying respects to the spirit of the tree which still resided in the roots and a remaining cluster of suckering stems a few feet away. Some of its branches would do very nicely as water pipes when hollowed out to bring water to the vegetable patch in high summer and parts of the main trunk would be used for making Gwyn a new bed. 

It was whilst Albanac and Gwyn lay down for a short while on the grass, taking a rest from their sweaty work with a drink of goats milk, they saw a strange sight. Far above, caught in the early afternoon sunlight, there swept the pinions of what looked like a mixed flight of winged horses, gryphons and eagles. There were clearly heading for Anvard. This gave them pause for thought, but there was nothing to be done but continue as normal. They all slept a little lighter and were weary the next day upon awakening.

The next three days were much the same, more milking, more weeding, the harvest of some early plums, a washing day and baking of several big round loaves of solid bread using rye and barley flour and a new yeast starter that Albanac had brought back from the Beruna market the week before.

They went back to bed. 

By the fourth or fifth morning, lulled through sleep with the house smelling deliciously of baking bread, Gwyn had almost put the Gryphon out of his mind. But whilst Albanac and Angharad were enjoying a refreshing mint and balm tea and discussing the main chores for the day ahead, a talking messenger bird arrived just as Rastus was making his way up the hill with the milking goats. 

As luck would have it, it was a raven, one of the two who had run errands for Angharad the previous autumn. Her name was Cornell and she circled down, alighted on the gate post before flapping over to the veranda where they were all eating. Cornell had a scroll in one claw. She looked at them, first with one beady eye, then the other. 

They stared back at her expectantly for a moment before Albanac belatedly called into the house. “Gwyn, Cornell is here. She has a message. I think you should come down and hear it.” 

Gwyn stumbled down the ladder and half falling, half gathering his rug about himself, he slid through the house and out the front door, collided with his mother’s seat and abruptly sat down on the front step. “Ooof!” he said and rubbed his bruised backside. Clive looked over with a baleful eye but said nothing. It did not do to keep the messenger birds waiting. They normally had many other people to visit.

“Well Master Gwyn, it seems you are in time for some grave tidings” croaked Cornell. “Today, I come bearing a message from Dale the Third, King of Narnia. It concerns us all. I only heard it myself for the first time an hour ago. The Parliament of Owls have been out all night it seems, delivering these scrolls to all the most reliable day birds right across Southern Narnia. I don’t have long. I have at least ten other hamlets and caves to visit up these valleys. I’ve just been to the dwarf mines over the ridge. They’re in uproar, and no mistake.” 

Her beady eyes surveyed them appraisingly. Rastus arched his neck and pulled in his nose, his horns standing up tall, looking majestic, his yellow-grey eyes with their horizontal slits expressionless. The humans had all gone pale, looking grave. Even Clive stopped panting, licked his chops once and sat staring with bloodshot eyes, his mouth firmly closed, ears witching slightly.  


“Well, I’ll come to the point. You can check my words against the scroll in my talons if you like but it’ll be quicker if I just talk.” She flicked her wings and ruffled her neck hackles. 

“Anyone who is a talking beast or bird, faun, centaur or the like or a son of Adam or a daughter of Eve is to withdraw from this part of Southern Narnia and gather on the far side of the Fords of Beruna within three days. Winged beasts and talking birds are included for the moment, until the King works out the lie of things. Dryads and naiads and the like are welcome to call in to Beruna if they can, but he respects the need for them to guard the trees and streams they belong to and asks them to try to withdraw into themselves and just keep watch for the next few weeks until they are asked otherwise.” 

“It seems that Anvard and its village have been invaded by an army of strange and ghoulish creatures out of nightmare. It includes werwolves and minotaurs and even worse beings! They have killed many people. Whilst Anvard is in Archenland, it is feared that they may use it as a staging point to invade Narnia and will try to come down this very valley! The King has his reasons for believing this. We don’t know when their next foray will be, but the King does not wish to risk the lives of those who are here. He' very sorry, but you’ll have to move.”

His mother and father were looking grim and had a hint of tears in both their eyes. They were holding hands tightly. Gwyn whimpered a little. He knew as well as his parents that between them and the dwarves over the ridge, there were only six large pack animals and that they would have to carry as much food and other supplies with their essential belongings as possible. 

Albanac held out his hand shakily, took the scroll from Cornell, and unrolled it, scanning the contents. Angharad looked over his shoulder. Cornell had embellished the message slightly but she was certainly not a twitterer. The basics were in the scroll. Yes, all in the greater Archen Valley who could, had to pull up their roots as quickly as possible and flee to Beruna and the northern side of the Great River. It bore the seal of the King.

“Thank you Cornell, may the blessings of Aslan and all the stars be upon you” intoned Angharad. She sighed, took the scroll, rolled it up and rebound it with the ribbon that was attached to the seal and handed it back to Cornell who quickly grasped it in her left talons.

“No doubt we’ll see each other properly in a few days!” rasped Cornell. “Don’t take too long! I hope to spy you out well down the track to Beruna by noon tomorrow!” 

With that, she hopped up onto the veranda, sidled up onto the peak of the roof and then took off, flying to the west up the tributary valley. From her direction, they suspected that Cornell would probably be next visiting the dens of some talking bears and the cave of a hermit centaur, who survived on roots, berries and spring water. 

Angharad said “I doubt if the hermit will be persuaded to shift himself at all and if Cornell can find those bears, he’ll be lucky. I think they will shift themselves if he finds them but they’ll will complain the whole way down!”  


“Yes and probably get completely distracted by the thickets of fruiting berries that are everywhere at this time of year.” added Clive.

There was another farm-holding, The Mincing Mare, down below them in a neighbouring side valley, about an hour’s ride away which was probably being visited by Cornell’s mate right now. This farm bred stock horses for herds-folk and chargers for Narnia’s defence and they were blessed with a flying stallion from the line of Fledge which helped manage the herd. Angharad looked across at her husband gravely and said: “I hope the Mincing Mare can be persuaded to loan a horse or two to us to help us shift things quickly enough”

Albanac looked back and said: “You are very right. One of us should ride there on the old grey nag this morning and be back as soon as may be. But to tell you the truth my love, I’m more concerned about our goats. Aslan knows how long we will be stuck on the Northern side of the Great River. I’m in two minds about whether we should try to take as many as we can manage down the valley and risk the fords of Beruna or just let them run free. What say you Rastus?”

Rastus tossed his proud head and said: “I wouldn’t like the chances of the milking girls being very comfortable without you or some young kids to help relieve them, so I dare say they’d best come down the valley. I think I’d best tag along then and help keep them comfortable. But unless you plan to murder and eat the rest of the lot in two days, I think you’d better let me get help to lead them up to the high fells quick smart. If the King speaks true and Narnia’s about to be invaded down this valley, I rather think the high fells will be a far safer place than on the far side of the fords of Beruna. They won’t be too welcome, not being talking beasts and all and not so skilled on the heights, but at times like this Aslan’s charge to treat the dumb beasts gently and cherish them will certainly be followed, I can vouch for that. But I can’t vouch for my people bothering to listen to the King. If they can’t protect themselves from werwolves and minotaurs on the high fells, no one can. They’ll tell me I’m mad for coming with you. Into the stomach of the wolf is what I’m thinking.”

This speech was the longest they’d ever heard him make and they all glanced at him in surprise. The wisdom of his words could not be denied and they seriously began to wonder if indeed it might be better to go higher up instead of lower down.

However, in the end they decided to obey the King and Albanac set off with Gwyn down to the Mincing Mare on the old nag to beg for a pair of stock horses in this time of emergency.

Angharad saw them off anxiously and once they were out of site she carefully approached the Linden Tree, placed her hands firmly on its trunk and bent her forehead respectfully to the rough bark with eyes closed. 

Many minutes went by in silence until she began to shake and quiver, whimpering slightly until with a gasp she broke from the tree, reeling in shock and horror before tumbling to the ground in a dead faint.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work that is inspired by a deep love and appreciation for C.S. Lewis's Tales of Narnia. I do not claim to own the places or peoples he created such rich vision of in his works.  
> PLEASE COMMENT AND REVIEW! Constructive critical feedback welcome. Very much a work in progress. If you find some of it enjoyable please tell me. I do intend to return to Gwyn in time.  
> Lots of world-building and many threads and new characters in each chapter. As Lewis's maps and descriptions of nearby lands are so sparse and his historical timeline so patchy, there is clearly room to expand and build a broader vision of his world that fills these gaps.  
> My challenge is to make sense of some of his apparent inconsistencies, to instil my own appreciation of landscape which he helped inspire in me, to upend the apparent racism in his constructed world, to have sensitivity for powerful women, to pick up minor themes and expand them in ways that are not constricted by a Christian fundamentalist view and which can be read through the lens of adult experience, whilst avoiding explicit references to "adult themes".  
> A few names are borrowed from Alan Garner's works or Welsh and Irish lists of baby names. The "Latin" names of fauns and satyrs are referenced from various sources. Dorcas by happy coincidence means "gazelle".  
> Please feel free to send some feedback about individual plot lines, story arc, chapters, character development. All welcome.  
> 


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